


You Gave Me the Word, I Finally Heard

by LeighKelly



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Deaf Character, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 132,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighKelly/pseuds/LeighKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Brittany Pierce was seven, a near drowning experience left her profoundly deaf. For twenty-two years, she's lived in a quiet solitude, her mother's response to her accident leaving her wary of building relationships. She's content with her life, her career, her home with her service dog Otis, until she quite literally runs into Santana Lopez...and then everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Gave Me the Word, I Finally Heard

**Brittany**

_June, 2015_

You were seven, the last time you heard a sound. It was the splash of limbs against water, it's a sound you'll never forget, it's a sound you've clung to for the last twenty-two years, like maybe, somehow, thinking of it, you'd suddenly be able to hear again. But for twenty-two years, it hasn't worked.

You'd nearly drowned, that's what had happened. You don't remember that anymore, just that sound. You don't remember falling in the ice cold pool at your Aunt Sally's Halloween costume party. You don't remember your Uncle Ned pulling you out. Wonder Woman costume and all. You don't remember the hospital, where your mom cried for hours and the doctors told her that you'd suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen.

You do remember waking up in an unfamiliar place, the hospital. You remember screaming, because it still felt like you were underwater. You remember how hard it was to focus on the words on your mother's lips, because you needed to read them so you could see her telling you everything would be alright. She didn't. You remember her crying that you were alive. But she  _never_  told you the words you needed to hear. You remember clawing at the sides of your face, at your ears, trying to figure out why they didn't work. You remember the years after, in school, when you had to learn to read again, because the letters on paper no longer made sense.

But you learned to read again. You learned to sign. Though you still knew how to speak. Because sometimes it was easier to pretend you couldn't. Because then you wouldn't have to feel your body vibrate with the laughter of others. Because after a few years of not hearing people speak around you, your own words started to sound funny. You didn't have many friends. And that. That was okay. You liked being by yourself, you and Otis. Otis, the service dog your parents got you, because they were afraid for you to cross the street alone. You and Otis. Your best friend is a dog. Has been since you got him. And you can't imagine anything different.

When you were twenty-three, you'd finally moved out of your parents' house. They treated you like you were made of glass most of the time, it made your sister jealous. They treated you like glass, all the while wishing you were the girl you were before you fell in the pool. Wishing you were the little girl with the whole universe before her. But you aren't that little girl anymore, and that's okay. For you. At least. You'd accepted it. You made your own universe instead. You painted it on canvas, on paper, on the backs of receipts and old tiles. You got lucky, for the second time in your life, because the first had been when you didn't drown in the pool. You got lucky, because you were offered a job doing art for children's books. You got lucky, because even though you can't hear, even though your parents don't understand you, and your sister may hate you a little, you made a pretty good living for yourself.

You didn't close yourself off, really, not intentionally. But. You prefer your solitude. You and Otis, on the top floor of a townhouse in Rittenhouse Square. You're happy there. You paint, you go for long walks, you dance at night to the music you can't hear, you try new foods, you drink strong coffee, you read books about places you probably won't get around to seeing, and mostly, you feel fulfilled. You're pragmatic. You don't have expectations of a whirlwind romance or wild nights where you wake up the next morning not remembering where you'd been.

It comes when you least expect it. You're walking on Third Street, you just dropped off a new batch of prints to your publisher, and you aren't paying attention. You keep headphones in your ears. Headphones that are attached to nothing. You'd learned to do that a long time ago. You'd learned that if people thought you were listening to music, they wouldn't try to talk to you. You'd learned to trust Otis, because he was good at his job. He was good at tugging at his leash to warn you of approaching strangers. But this time, he doesn't. You don't see her. You don't see her until your bodies collide, and you feel the spray of hot coffee all over your chest and face. You don't have to hear her screaming to know she's angry. No, angry isn't the word. She's livid. Her eyes seem to burn fire as she wipes coffee from her cream-colored suit jacket, and you feel your body shrink at her presence. She's beautiful, more beautiful than anyone you'd ever seen in your life, but she is entirely terrifying.

 _Are you blind? Or are you just stupid?_  You watch her perfect lips move, and the crease in her forehead deepen _. Are you going to take headphones out? Or are you just going to stand there and stare at me and my ruined jacket?_

"I'm deaf." You speak back, self-conscious of your words." I wasn't paying attention. I'm sorry."

_Sorry? You—_

The words die on her lips as her eyes lock with yours. You can't help the small curl of a smile at the corners of your mouth when she looks at you, and a small, surprised gasp escapes her. Your heart races in your chest, and Otis, Otis who seems to be up to something, simply lies down at your feet while you reach into your purse and offer her a small pack of tissues. She raises an eyebrow, as if to question  _really?_ but she accepts them anyway. She dabs at her ruined clothing, and you look down sheepishly. Your tissues won't help, not in the slightest, but, it's the best you can do. It's the best you could do, and somehow, it seems to work, if not to sop up the coffee, but her frustration with you.

"Let me give you my information. I'll pay for. For your cleaning bill. Or a new suit. Whichever you want."

 _Maybe—_ she begins, looking to see that you understand her, and you nod. Her anger keeps melting, melting, and it's the strangest thing you've ever seen. The daggers in her eyes retract, and you dare to believe that they're replaced with an unexpected sort of softness.  _You could start by buying me a new cup of coffee._

"I think I can handle that." You smile again. "I'm Brittany, Brittany Pierce."

_Santana Lopez._

"Santana Lopez." You repeat, though you're positive the unfamiliar name sounds wrong when you spoke it. "It's nice to meet you."

 _I wish I hadn't met you by ruining my jacket, but—_ She waves her hand, as if to brush it off, and you relax a little.  _Hi, Brittany Pierce._

You walk alongside her. Though it's usually against your nature and means of self-preservation to go toward an unfamiliar destination, you follow where she leads you. Otis remains at your side, far more on alert than he'd been a few moments earlier, and you scratch the top of his head, assuring him that all is forgiven. As Santana walks, she strips off her jacket, revealing a lacy sage camisole beneath it. You try not to stare, really, but she's beautiful. She's beautiful, and the perfume she wears sort of short circuits your working senses and makes you blush deep, deep red. You hope she doesn't notice, because you're mortified at your own innocence, feeling your body heat up at the sight of a mostly clothed woman, but the wry smile on her mouth told you she does. It tells you she does, and it tells you she was used to that reaction, that she knows she's beautiful, and she's sure to flaunt it.

When you reach a bakery you've never seen before, she opens the door for you, and you reach in your bag for the card you carry for Otis. You hate bringing him new places, places that don't know you both, but you follow Santana in, and you can't see her mouth move as she talks to the girl behind the counter, her body shaking with laughter. Normally, you'd think she was laughing at you, making fun of your clumsiness, your stupidity, but somehow, somehow, you know she's not, and you feel an unfamiliar tingle at the back of your neck.

"Coffee. Black. Please." You say to the girl, crisping your words as best as you can.

Santana finds a seat while you pay for the drinks, and she smiles at you when you approach, Otis' leash around your wrist and a plain white mug brimming with coffee in each hand. You're careful, more careful than you've ever been as you set them down on the table in front of you and take your own seat. She nods, teasing, you think, maybe, though you're never really good at reading other people. You watch her as you take a sip, and hold back a moan at the taste on your tongue. It just may be the best coffee you've ever tasted, and you're sure you'll never go anywhere else.

 _Good, right?_  She asks, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear.

"The best, maybe." You confirm.

 _You speak well._ Santana tells you, and you're not sure you understood her correctly, so she repeats herself, and you flush. _I've never heard a deaf person speak before._

"I could hear until I was seven," you find yourself saying, though you never, ever tell anyone about yourself, you never tell anyone about the accident. "I almost drowned. Sometimes I think my mom wishes I would have, rather than have me damaged. I—I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you this."

 _I'm sorry._ She frowns, and you can tell by her eyes that it's not a pity apology. She means it, you think— or maybe, you just hope that's the truth.  _I'm sorry I called you stupid. I wouldn't have if…_

"It's okay, I've been hearing, or, not hearing it, I guess, my whole life."

 _I'm sorry for that too._  She shakes her head.  _Is this hard for you? I can't sign, but I have paper in my purse, I could write for you._

"I can read lips probably about as well as you can hear. Sometimes I think, if I try hard enough, I can hear voices I've heard before. I don't know what your voice sounds like, but I bet it's beautiful." You look down, you can't control the words that come out of your mouth.

 _Well, I hope so, it's kind of how I make my living._  She smiles, and your smile in return.

"Are you a singer?"

_I wish. I can sing, but, I realized when I was nineteen that the hope of a record deal didn't pay the bills. I'm a radio host, the morning show, on WIOQ._

"Oh, wow." You feel a little bit of sadness pull your face down. You hate when you feel wistful like that, but it hits you sometimes, and you always try quickly to shake it away. "That sounds really fun."

 _I like it._ Her fingers sort of dance along the table, and you flex yours, resisting the unexpected urge to reach out and touch them.  _What is it that you do, Brittany?_

"I paint. For children's books, professionally. But. For me, too."

_That's awesome. I can't even make stick figures._

"We all make art in our own way." You shrug a little. "Thank you, for not being mad anymore. I am really sorry about your jacket."

_Don't worry about it. My New Year's resolution was to stop overreacting._

"It's June?" You can't help but tease.

_Slow starter, sue me._

"I won't, if you won't."

_I'm no lawyer, but I'm pretty sure a lawsuit over spilled coffee won't hold up well in court._

"I hope not." Feeling bolder than you've ever been, you reach across the table for her hand. Your nerves jump, and you didn't expect it, and you force yourself to continue the pretense, turning it over and inspecting the skin there. "No physical damage."

_Except to the jacket._

"Which I offered to pay for. How much is it, by the way? Can I write you a check? Or I'll get you cash, or, I'll give you my card and you can—"

 _How about dinner?_  Santana doesn't pull her hand away from you, and instead, you feel her thumb stroking the back of yours making your skin tickle.

"You want me to take you to dinner?"

_Actually, I was hoping I could take you…and, your dog too. You haven't introduced me, by the way._

"Oh, I'm sorry." You look down to Otis, and he lifts his head a little. Even he doesn't hear your voice very often, so he must be shocked by how much you're speaking. "Santana, Otis, Otis, Santana."

 _Hi there, Otis._ She continues to look at you when she speaks, something most people forget to do, and you appreciate it, you appreciate it more than you think she'll ever understand. Something about her, it makes you feel like you never even remember feeling, and you smile at her for what feels like the hundredth time in a half hour.  _What do you say to dinner with me and Brittany?_

"I think…I think Otis would like that."

 _Just Otis?_ Santana winks at you, and butterflies fill your stomach.

"Not just Otis." You shake your head. "I think I'd really like it too."

_Good. I hate to leave now, Brittany, but I have a meeting in a half hour. Can I…um…can I text you, and we'll make a plan?_

"Yeah, definitely."

You realize you're still holding her hand, when she goes to take down your number, and slowly, you pull it away, shivering a little at the loss of contact. You don't understand it, really, you've never been one for physical touch, or making plans, opening up, but suddenly, there's Santana. There's Santana, who'd yelled at you in the streets, who'd then taken a cup of coffee and a dinner date as repayment for what was clearly a very expensive jacket. There's Santana, the most gorgeous woman you've ever seen, Santana, who's known you for all of thirty minutes, and yet, has made more of an effort to treat you like a person than your own mother has since you were seven years old. There's Santana, who's awakened something inside of you, who makes you smile, giddy, as she taps your number into her phone, and immediately sends you a message so you'll have hers, too. There's Santana, who somehow makes you feel, for the first time in twenty-two years, like maybe, maybe, you're not so abnormal after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest of thank you's to mad-cow-mama, who proofread and edited this entire work for me! It wouldn't be possible in this current format without her help! And also to ohhheyitsnic, my cheerleader and idea bouncer and always pre-reader!


	2. There's Something In the Way

**Santana**

This isn't like you. This isn't like you at all. You don't get nervous about women. You haven't in more than a decade. And yet, here you are. You're like your sixteen-year old self, standing in front of the mirror, trying to put on your makeup, and you're sure you're about three seconds from pulling a Bozo the clown, because your hands are sort of shaking. You can't understand this. You can't understand Brittany Pierce at all.

No. That's a lie. You can understand Brittany Pierce perfectly. She's beautiful. Those blue eyes drew you in, the instant you looked into them. They stopped your ranting dead in its tracks. They're so expressive, and you think, you think maybe she has to communicate more with them than other people, so they've adapted to reveal the entire universe in a single glance. She's sweet. Had anyone else handed you a drugstore packet of tissues to dab at the large coffee spill that dripped down the front of your clothing, you'd have tossed them back in their face and lashed them for their insincerity. But that's the thing. She isn't insincere. She's a little fumbling. She's a lot adorable. She's completely not your type, and what you don't understand is the way your stomach flips at the thought of a woman you spent less than a half hour with.

You're not sure if this is a date. You're not even sure if Brittany is interested in women. But the way your body sparked when she took your hand and (pretended?) to check it for burns, you sure hope it is, you sure hope  _she_  is. Whether it's a date or not, you've put a lot of thought into the evening. You've put a lot of thought into the evening, and not in the way you usually would. You'd spent yesterday afternoon scouring reviews on OpenTable, and not for somewhere that you could wow her with your impeccable taste in wine. You sought a place she could feel comfortable. You sought a place that wasn't too dark, because you wanted her to be able to read your lips without having to struggle. You sought a place that wasn't too loud, because you wanted to hear her voice. You love her voice already, though you can tell she's self-conscious about it. You love it, and you're so wholly impressed with the way she speaks. You love the way your name rolls off her tongue, unfamiliar to her, a little different than how other people say it, but perfect, nonetheless. After narrowing your list of places down, you ended up throwing it all away. You changed your mind. Instead of your usual, you decided you wanted to find somewhere you could sit outside. You'd seen her hesitance about bringing Otis into the bakery. You understood that, and the back of your neck burned a little in shame, thinking of the time you'd muttered under your breath about dogs in restaurants. You understood that, and you didn't want her to feel uncomfortable on this date—or, this  _not_  date, whichever—not in the slightest.

You'd found a restaurant with outside tables, you'd found a restaurant that wasn't too romantic, but yet wasn't too friendly either, and you'd made a reservation for two. You'd called ahead, you'd told them about Otis. You didn't want Brittany to have a problem. You don't want her to do that thing she'd done a few times two days earlier, where she looks down in shame because she's embarrassed of who she is. (You hate that. She shouldn't have to feel shame, she should never have to feel shame. You think she's brave and strong. You think you couldn't go through the world and be successful like she is, even if you only had to go five minutes without your hearing.) You'd sent Brittany a text message with a smiley face (who are you? You're not sure) and asked her to meet you there tonight at eight. Your stomach flipped again when she'd replied  _OK! Great!_ OK. Exclamation point. Great. Exclamation point. Something's wrong with you, you're sure, with these reactions you're having to punctuation. Something's wrong with you, and you sort of think that you don't want whatever it is to go away.

It's not like you, but you leave an hour early to get to dinner. You don't want her to have to wait. On the way, you debate stopping for flowers. But you're still unsure if it's a date (maybe she's just really enthusiastic about having dinner with a friend, what with those exclamation points and all) and you're positive you don't want to come on too strong. Instead, when you walk past a pet store, you pop inside, and you end up with a plastic bag filled with odd shaped treats for Otis. You're not even sure he's allowed to have them, you're pretty positive you've heard that service animals aren't treated like pets, but— you can't believe you're even thinking this— you really want him to like you. A dog. You want a dog to like you. No. You want  _her_  dog to like you. You're quite possibly losing your mind.

When you arrive at the restaurant, you wave off the maitre'd's offer to seat you while you wait for your dinner companion. You want to wait for Brittany at the entrance. You don't want her to have trouble finding you. But you also don't want her to think you think she can't. Because you know she can, it's just— you want this all to be perfect. Especially if it's a date. No, actually, not even especially if it's a date. You want it to be perfect no matter what. There's just something about her. She's under your skin already, you haven't stopped thinking about her for thirty-six hours, and even if it's not a date, even if she's totally not at all into women, or, just not into  _you_ , you still want it to be a perfect night. You want it to be perfect, so you wait on the bench outside. You wait, and you check your emails, and you feel your heart race and your hands grow clammier by the minute.

"Hi, Santana." You hear from above you. You hear that way she says your name, the way you want her to say over and over again, and your eyes snap up, just as she's pulling her headphones out of her ears and tucking them back into her purse.

While you take her in, you need to remind yourself to breathe. There aren't even appropriate adjectives to describe her, you're positive about that. Radiant, maybe, is as close as you can come. But even that doesn't do her justice. She's in a deep blue dress that stops mid-thigh, and you notice how she fidgets a little with it, her fingers trying not to tug at the ends. She smiles a little, before wringing her hands. She's nervous, though not as nervous as you, you don't think, and you smile in return, watching the tips of her ears turn red.

"Hi." You stand up to greet her, your heels bringing you almost to her eye level. "You look really nice."

"Thank you, Santana." She says your name again, and you shift your eyes around, thinking maybe those butterflies burst free of your stomach and are flying around above your heads. "So do you."

"Thanks." You look away for a moment, a little shy, and then you look to Otis, who seems to be regarding you carefully. You hold out your hand, but then your eyes snap back to Brittany, asking her permission to touch him. Her eyes crinkle as she nods her consent, and you pat Otis's head, scratching behind one of his floppy ears, continuing to look at Brittany, so she can see your words. "Hey Otis, thanks for coming to dinner with me. It's pretty nice out tonight, I thought you might want to sit outside."

"That sounds really good." She speaks for both of them, and you're met with this unexplainable surge of affection for her.

The maitre'd leads you over to your table, surprisingly intimate, considering you're dining al fresco, and you thank him when he pulls out the chairs for you and for Brittany. Otis lies at her feet, his head up and alert, and she pats him to settle him down. You're taken by it, you can't explain it, but something about the whole thing just, it gets you, and you can't stop staring.

"I'm sorry, he's just a little on edge tonight."

"Don't be sorry." You shake your head. "I hope it's not because of me."

"No, no, not at all." She promises. "I think he's just picking up that I'm, I'm kind of nervous. I'm sorry, I'm not supposed to say that, am I? It's just, I've never been on a date. I mean, I don't mean this is a date. Or, I don't know if I mean this is a date. Oh God."

"Hey, Brittany." You tap the back of her hand when she buries her face in it, and then repeat your words again when she pulls them back and is able to see you. "It's alright, I'm a little nervous too."

"But why? You're beautiful." She blurts, and before she can cover her face again, you hold out your hand to her, letting her take it, if she's comfortable enough to do it.

"Brittany. So are you." You tell her, and you hope she can see that your words are soft, meant only for her.

"But I'm—"

"A little awkward? Very likely to spill coffee on strangers?" You tease, not wanting her to ever think her deafness is some kind of reason you wouldn't want to be on a date with her. "I think I can work with that. I'd really like this to be a date tonight, but, if you'd rather it just be dinner between friends, I'm okay with that too."

"I think—" Brittany hesitates, but her hand is still on yours, warm, soft, absolutely perfect. "I think I'd really like to be on a date with you, Santana."

"Well then, Brittany." A smile spreads across your face, and the butterflies calm, before starting up again, stronger than ever. "I think we should make the most of your very first date."

You think that had you met anyone else who was twenty-nine years old and had never been on a date, you would have been wholly freaked out, you might have been an awful human being and fled the restaurant. But not with Brittany. You're enchanted by her. She makes it clear she doesn't want to be pitied, and she gives you no reason to pity her. She's brave, she's strong, she's passionate. You can feel it all in the way she tells you about her life, the way she shows you her paintings that she's snapshotted with her phone. The paintings, they're more vibrant than anything you've ever seen, and you see the pride in her eyes when you express your appreciation for them.

She listens—or, perhaps you need to find a different word, you're not sure— intently when you tell her about your radio show, about how people call you up for love advice, and you've been responsible for three weddings, all of which you've attended. You tell her about your childhood in Queens, how your mom raised you alone, working three jobs, so you could have all the opportunities that she didn't. She asks you if you sound like Fran Drescher, because she remembers that voice, and after you tell her "less nasal, more Puerto Rican," you both laugh until your stomachs hurt.

When you show her the treats you brought for Otis, your heart is in your throat with the way she looks at you. You can't really describe it— you can't describe anything about Brittany, really, she's so much bigger than words— but you're sure no one has ever looked at you quite that way. She lets you feed him under the table, just one, because he's on a pretty strict diet, but then he looks at you too, and you think maybe that crazy you were feeling earlier could actually be what heaven feels like.

You finish a bottle of wine, and you order dessert to share. A passion fruit cheesecake that Brittany makes the cutest sounds over, sounds that cause you to push more in her direction, because anyone enjoying something that much deserves to have more. She tries to fight you for the check, but she's not as fast as you, slipping your credit card into the leather wallet and passing it off to your server without missing a beat. She pouts a little, and you just can't help but bat your eyelashes, telling her if she wants to pay, then she'll have to take you on a second date.

"Can I walk you home?" You ask, when you finally, reluctantly stand up. You don't want this date to end just yet, and, even more so, you feel really protective of her, no matter how safe the neighborhood is. It's late, and you want to see her safely to her door, her and Otis.

"You don't have to. But—" She purses her lips. "If you want to, I'd like that a lot."

It's not a long walk, but once Brittany slips her hand into yours, her fingers finding their home in the spaces between yours, you slow your pace, wanting it to last forever. You can't really talk and walk, because it's nearly impossible for her to look at you then, but that's okay, you don't even need words to fill the comfortable silence between the two of you. It's the best date you've ever been on, you're sure of it, and you're even more sure that Brittany Pierce is the most interesting person you've ever met. As much as you've learned about her, you find yourself wanting to know more, more, more, and you sigh a little, hoping that she feels as eager for another date as you do. This isn't you, not at all, but strangely, you're completely okay with that.

"This is where I live." She tells you when you reach a brick townhouse with big bay windows, windows you immediately picture her sitting in and painting. Without dropping your hand, she turns so she's facing you, so she can see you, and Otis lies down on the sidewalk, giving you two a moment, apparently. "Thank you for dinner, Santana."

"Thank you for having it with me, Brittany." Your lips twitch, when you watch her eyes glance down to yours.

You want to kiss her, you want to kiss her so badly, you want to feel those gorgeous lips, the ones that speak your name like you've never heard it before moving against yours, but you won't. You're not sure if anyone's ever kissed her before— though you don't know. Just because she's never been on a date before doesn't mean— your thoughts are cut off when she reaches up, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. Your senses are filled with her, she's everywhere. She's under your skin. She's in your veins. She's just, something, something else. Her eyes flicker back to yours from where they'd trained on your lips, and you see the universe again, burning bright, bright, trapped in blue.

"Hi." You whisper, the fingers of your free hand flexing at the side of your body. You've never felt like this. You're always full of bravado, but now, now you're just, so captivated that you can't even think straight.

"Hey." She speaks back, and you think maybe, maybe, she's smirking at you. "Is it okay if I…"

"It's okay if you…"

And she does. Oh, she does. She leans in, slowly, a little unsure, very, very nervous, but before you know it, her lips are pressing against yours. It's soft, it's quick, it leaves you wanting more, so much more, for the rest of eternity, but oh, it's perfect. Her nose brushes against yours when she pulls away, and her tiny sigh, different than her cheesecake sighs, and so, so much better, makes goosebumps rise on your flesh.

"Goodnight, Santana." She murmurs, sucking her lips into her mouth.

"Goodnight, Brittany. Goodnight Otis."


	3. It's Beautiful and So Are You

**Brittany**

Buzzing. You're absolutely buzzing as you make your way up the stairs. It's late. It's late and you have to be careful of the pressure on your stairs, because Mr. Shapiro downstairs complained to the landlord about your noise once, and you were mortified, because you had absolutely no idea that you were actually making any. You kissed her. You actually kissed her. You can't believe it. Just two days ago, you were perfectly content, just you and Otis, and now, now you can't get this girl out of your head.

You don't have any basis for comparison, but you're sure if you did, that would still be the best date in the world. She smiled so much, she laughed so much, and you think, you think, how nice it would be to hear it. But you push those thoughts down, because you  _can't_  hear it, you'll  _never_ hear it, and it would do you much better to focus on the sparkle of Santana's eyes. The soft crinkle of her forehead. Those perfect, perfect dimples on her cheeks. That's her laughter for you, and though it's soundless, you think that maybe, maybe it's more beautiful than any other laughter there could ever be.

You can taste her on your lips still. You can taste her on your lips, and it makes your heart race so fast that you're a little afraid you might have a heart attack. You hope Otis remembers how to call for help. Just in case. It wasn't a deep, passionate kiss, but it was your first. It was your first kiss, and it was soft, and gentle, and just— it was perfect. As you sink down onto the couch, Otis curling up on the floor beneath you, you still taste her, expensive lipstick, passion fruit,  _her._  You're falling, falling, falling, and you think, even if you try to stop yourself now, you won't be able to. It's too late. Maybe it was always too late.

The whole night, you toss and turn. It might be ridiculous, but you can't help yourself. You want to text her. You want to see her again, as soon as possible, but, you've seen enough movies to know that reeks of desperation. So you wake up early, you leash up Otis, and you go for a run along the Schuylkill River, trying to clear all the buzzing in your mind and body.

It doesn't work. Not really. You're still thinking about her when you get home. You're still thinking about her in the shower. You're still thinking about her when you decide to take your pad and watercolors down to the park. She's in your head and she won't get out. Except you don't want her out. Not really. You mostly just want to text her. You mostly just want to ask her out on that second date.

You're spread out on the grass, pretty involved in a painting of a little boy flying a kite when you feel Otis tug at his leash around your wrist. You jerk your head up, and you don't expect it when you see Santana walking along the path in front of you. A smile pulls at your mouth, you can't help it, because she looks so casual, jean shorts and a black tank top, hair pulled back in a ponytail, big sunglasses covering half of her face. She doesn't see you, and you consider whether or not to call out her name. You don't get to decide. Otis makes the decision for you. Santana turns to look at you, and you know he barked, unsubtle jerk of a dog you have. You feel your cheeks flame when she lowers her sunglasses to look over at you. She shields her cup of coffee as she approaches, and you roll your eyes at her teasing little smirk.

_Fancy meeting you here._  She takes off her glasses and sinks down to her knees, so you can see her face.  _The artist at work._

"Nothing big." You shrug, and you don't bother to take your headphones out of your ears, because she knows it doesn't change anything, you don't have to put up a pretense.

_Can I see?_ Santana drops the books she was carrying, and sets her coffee down, but doesn't try to look over your pad. You nod, lowering it so she can see what you're working on.  _Beautiful._  She looks at your work, and then back up to your eyes. Tentatively, she reaches out to your face, and with her thumb, she wipes away what you know is a smudge of paint. You're always covered in it, your hair, your hands, your face, but, someone wiping it from your skin, that's new, and you shudder. You shudder in the best way possible, and you have to catch her hand up with your own.  _Hi._

"Hey." Your eyes lock with hers, and it makes you ache. It makes you ache like you've never ached before.

_Hi, Otis._  She reaches with her free hand to scratch his head, but she never tears her eyes from your face.  _I'm really happy to see you._

"Me too. Really glad. I wasn't sure if I should text you, or— I don't know the rules."

_The rules are a waste of time,_  Santana tells you, and you think maybe she's huffing a little as she says it.  _You can text me whenever you want. I was going to text_  you  _this afternoon, just because I wanted to tell you again what a good time I had last night._

"I did too." You agree, though it's a little bit of a lie. Good doesn't describe it. Good doesn't even begin to describe it. "I. I hope you still want to go on that second date."

Santana smiles at you. She smiles at you and your body thrums, because you can feel she really means it. It's not that patronizing  _yes, dear_  smile your mom gives you. It's not the  _I'm sorry your mother wishes you were someone you can't be anymore but I can't help you, kid_  smile that you get from your dad. It's not that passing sympathetic smile you get from strangers or doctors. No. Santana smiles at you like she sees  _you,_  the person behind the headphones and the dog and the slowed response time. She smiles at you like you're a woman. Not a child. Not a charity case. And you can't believe that you've lived without the way it makes you feel for nearly all of your life.

_Well, I would—_ Her lips twist into a wry look.  _But you haven't asked me yet._

"Oh." You pause, teasing back. You scratch Otis' head, you look around a little, all the while feeling Santana's eyes on you. In the moment, you consider asking her to go to dinner later in the week, but then. Then you think about what she said, about rules being a waste of time. You're both here now, and, the worst she can tell you is that she has other plans. "So, I was wondering. If, maybe, you want to have lunch with me this afternoon."

_Brittany._ Santana smiles again, you really want her to smile at you all the time, forever.  _I just so happen to have finished everything I had to do today this morning. I'd love to have lunch with you._

You begin gathering up your pencils, your paints, your papers that you've sort of spread out in the grass around you, and Santana watches you, intently. Under her gaze, you don't feel self-conscious. You don't feel awkward. You just feel like you're something really special. When you finally have everything put away, she begins to pick up her books, and then she freezes. She freezes, and she looks at you. She looks at you, almost like she's guilty of something, and you're confused. You're confused, until you see the spines of the books, and then you have to swallow hard, because you can feel tears pricking at the back of your throat.  _Sign Language for Everyone. The American Sign Language Phrase Book. A Complete Idiot's Guide to Conversational Sign._

"Santana."

_I. I feel kind of dumb right now. I just—_  She casts her eyes down but keeps her head up, she doesn't mumble, so you can still understand her.  _I really like you. And. I didn't want to presume anything, but, I just really want to get to know you. I couldn't stop thinking about it last night, how you speak, and you read lips, because it's easier for me to understand you. But. I wanted to try and learn to speak your language, too. So it's easier for_  you.  _Now I'm pretty embarrassed though. We've only been on one date._

"Santana." You say her name again, and you wonder. You wonder if she can hear how awed you feel. You wonder if she can hear the tears in your throat. You wonder if she can even begin to understand just how—how  _everything_  this is to you. Your mother doesn't sign. Your sister doesn't sign. Your father tries, but, it's easier to just speak to him. But this woman. You've known her three days and she's just— You struggle to find words, because you're not sure there are any, but you need to say something. "Please don't be embarrassed. This is. The nicest thing. The nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

_What?_  She lifts her eyes back up, her eyes that search deep inside of you.

"It's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Everyone always tries to make it easier, I guess, for me to fit in their world. But. No one has ever tried to fit in mine."

_I would really like to fit in yours, Brittany._

"I'd really like that too, Santana."

You can't stop staring at her, you can't stop the feeling of your heart beating against your rib cage, you can't stop the swoop in your stomach that makes you feel like you're falling. And most importantly, you can't stop the urge you have to kiss her again. Your fingers twitch, like they need to touch her skin. They twitch, and you push yourself up on your knees and set your hands on her thighs. The sun-heated skin of her thighs against your palms makes you shiver. You're not used to being close to people like this. You're not used to so much physical contact. But, with Santana, you crave it more than anything. You feel her suck in air as you get close to her, and again, again, for the second time in twenty-four hours, your lips are on hers.

The kiss is different this time. It's not a sweet thank-you-for-a-wonderful-date kiss. It's not a slightly-unsure-first-kiss-of-your-life. It's an I-need-you-to-know-the-things-you-do-to-me kiss. It's an I-want-to-be-surrounded-by-you kiss. It's a kiss that causes a blooming in the pit of your stomach. A kiss that makes you part your lips, just slightly, so that you can drink more of Santana in. She brings her hands up to cup your face, and you sigh. You're in heaven. This has to be what it feels like. You just can't imagine a better feeling in all the universe. It doesn't last long. You're in public, after all. It doesn't last long, but it's perfect, and when you part, you remain lost in her eyes. You remain lost in those beautiful dark eyes of hers, and you see them dance as she smiles again.

_So lunch?_

"Yes, absolutely lunch."


	4. All About the Girl Who Came To Stay

**Santana**

You've seen her almost every day for two weeks. It amazes you how entirely intrigued you are by this woman. Brittany, she's like no one else you've ever met. She takes you to her secret spots around the city, spots where she can sit with Otis and paint, undisturbed, spots where she can be alone with her thoughts and she doesn't have to worry about running into anyone. She takes you inside her apartment and shows you where she paints— you were right about the window, her easel is there— and the wall that surrounds it is covered in paint splatters. But other than the paint splatters, she's organized, meticulous and impossibly neat.

You take her to Reading Terminal and coax her into eating chocolate-covered onions, even when she looks at you like you're insane. You take her to the radio station late at night, when they run syndicated programming and you don't have to worry about anyone being there. You let her try on your headphones and touch the dials, and you sit in your chair for her, because she wants to take pictures of you there. You take her to your apartment, where you're a little embarrassed at the clutter. She teases you about being a hoarder, but she smiles, she smiles so much. She wants to know you, the real you, in your own spaces. And you want to know her like that too.

You have dinners and brunches and lunches. You walk. You drive the two of you to New Jersey one afternoon, because she's never been to the Cherry Hill Mall, and you feel comfortable shopping for clothes with her. You kiss, you kiss a lot, whenever you can. And still, after dozens of them, you know you'll never get sick of the little sounds she makes, or the way she always holds your hand after, like she doesn't want you to go too far away. You practice your sign when she's not with you, because you want so badly to be good at it, and when you try in front of her, she takes your hands and helps you shape the symbols properly. You're falling for her. You're falling for her so hard. You're falling for her, and you love every moment of it.

Eighteen days after you first met, you're picking her up for brunch. You've introduced her to Bellinis, and since she's in agreement with you that they're a hundred times better that Mimosas, you want to take her to University City, because there's a place that has the best ones you've ever had. She lets you up to her apartment when you get there, and while she finishes getting ready, you sit on her couch, and you scratch beneath Otis' neck, enjoying the way he lolls his head back. You never pegged yourself as a dog person, that's for sure. Or a cat person. Or an animal person at all. But Otis. Otis you've taken an immediate liking to, and you think—or maybe you just hope—he's taken a liking to you, too.

You hear keys in the door, and you startle. You startle, because you didn't think Brittany was expecting anyone, but also because you find yourself worrying a lot about her safety. You know it's unnecessary. You know that she's been taking care of herself for a long time, much longer, even, than she's lived on her own. But you care about her. You care about her so much, and because of that, you think it's only natural that you'd worry.

Otis jumps up from his spot, and without missing a beat, he goes into Brittany's bedroom to find her. Before they return though, a blonde woman is walking through the door, yelling Brittany's name, which confuses you. She doesn't notice your presence, though you're about ten feet from her, and before you can make yourself known, Brittany enters the room, Otis close to her side.

"Mom?" Brittany questions, her throat sounding tight, you think, though you can't be sure, and she casts her eyes over to you. "Mom. Why are you— why are you here?"

She's nervous. You can tell she's nervous. She plays with the hem of her shirt, and her socked feet twist around a little on the floor beneath her. The woman, her mother, doesn't look up from what she's doing— going through Brittany's mail, it appears— and when she talks in return, you notice that she doesn't look at her daughter. She doesn't look at her, and you're not entirely sure if Brittany understands what she's saying at all.

"Mom. Can you repeat that?" She's uncomfortable asking, she hates that, she gets embarrassed, even though you think she shouldn't. Not at all. But especially not with her own mother.

"Brittany—" You can hear the exasperation, and you try, you try, you think, without much success, not to cringe. "I  _said_  I'm going to have lunch with your sister, and I wanted to stop in and say hello."

"Oh." Brittany sucks her lips into her mouth, and looks at you. You nod, you tell her she can introduce you to her mother, though you think she's as aware as you are that you could probably sit there the entire time undetected. She moves just a little, making room, you think, at her side, and you stand, coming to her. Your fingers twitch to hold her hand, but you're unsure. You're unsure, because what you are has no label, not yet, and you don't want to cause Brittany any more discomfort. So instead, you lace your own fingers together, and you straighten your posture. "Mom, this is Santana."

The woman, Whitney, you think Brittany had told you her name was, looks over at you. Her eyes flicker with something you can't detect. Something that makes you fight the urge to cringe again. She finally stops rifling through the mail, and she approaches. Otis shifts. He does it in the most subtle way. But in these past few weeks, you've come to notice how in tune he is with Brittany. He's in tune with her, and he puts himself, just a little bit, between her and her mother. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes your heart ache. But Brittany doesn't falter, and you won't either.

"Hello." She speaks far louder than she had for Brittany, exaggerating her words on her lips. And you realize. You realize she thinks you're deaf. She thinks you're deaf, and she's making an effort to speak to you so you can understand. One she doesn't bother to make for her own daughter. "I'm Whit-ney. Pierce. Brittany's mo-ther."

"Hello, Mrs. Pierce." You extend your hand, mustering up every ounce of manners and respect that  _your_  mother trained into you from a young age.  _No matter what, Santana, you show respect. Whether they deserve it or not. You never give anyone any more opportunity to look down on you than they'll already take._  "Santana Lopez. It's so nice to meet you."

"You. Speak. Ve-ry well." She enunciates, and you  _swear_  you hear Otis whimper a little in secondhand embarrassment.

"Mrs. Pierce, I can hear." You inform her, and a look of utter disbelief crosses her features.

"You can  _hear?_ " She taps her own ear for effect, and you nod. "Well why didn't ya say so? Now I feel like an idiot."

"For what?" It's taking every single ounce of self-control for you not to narrow your eyes at her. You know why she does. You know it's because she'd— she'd  _lowered_  herself, you think bitterly.

"Well for talking at you like that." Whitney rolls her eyes and looks at Brittany. "Tea, Brittany?"

"Sure, mom." She nods, trying, you know, not to sigh, though she's extremely unsuccessful.

Brittany turns away, shooting you a strange glance, and Otis follows her to the stove. He keeps one eye on Whitney. You see it. You see it, and you don't blame him. You feel a little sick to your stomach. But she's her  _mom_. She's Brittany's mom, and you care about Brittany very much, so you'll try to refrain from vomiting on the woman's clearly expensive shoes.

She sizes you up. Looking, you think, for some sort of defect. Whether in your physical or mental ability, you're unsure. But you let her. You keep your spine straight and your chin up, and you look her in the eyes.

"So." She snaps. "What's the matter with you?"

"Excuse me?" You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and breathe deeply.

"What's the matter with you? Seems like you can see, you've got your limbs. I can't tell if it's a TBI—"

"Mrs. Pierce. I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean what's the matter with you? You're a very beautiful woman. You clearly can't be normal, if you're hanging around with Brittany."

A lump forms instantly in your throat. A lump you can't make go away, no matter how many times you swallow. Your eyes cast over to Brittany, where she reaches for a mug in the cabinet. You can't believe you're thinking it, but you're so glad her back is turned and that she can't hear any of this. Her mother. The woman who's supposed to keep her safe at all costs— that's what your own has told you, anyway— is inspecting you. Inspecting you, not because she doesn't think you're not good enough for her daughter. But because she thinks her daughter isn't good enough for  _you._  Brittany hasn't talked much about her. Not really. Not since that slip of the tongue the first time you had coffee. And you think this is why. You think what she'd suspected might actually be true. You think this woman might be exactly the reason why Brittany is constantly skeptical about you wanting to be around her. You think this woman might be the reason why Brittany questions kindness and closes herself off. You think all of these things might be true, and the sick feeling at the pit of your stomach becomes almost unbearable.

"There's nothing  _wrong_  with me. And there's nothing wrong with Brittany either."

"Oh, cut the crap. She. Cannot. Hear."

"Yes, Mrs. Pierce, I know." You bite your tongue so hard that you draw blood, and glance over to the kitchen again, locking eyes with Otis for an instant, before looking back to Whitney. "But that doesn't mean there's something  _wrong_  with her."

"Look, honey, you've been around, what? A month? Max? Try twenty-two years, then go ahead and tell me there's nothing wrong with her. I don't know if you've got a deaf kink, or what your story is, but just by the looks of you, you've got the whole world wide open in front of you. A world that just doesn't accommodate my daughter like it accommodates you. Think about that."

You don't know what to say. You feel your mouth open and close, but you really, really cannot find the words to say in response to her. She's wrong. She's so wrong, about so much of it. She doesn't know you at all. And clearly, she doesn't know her daughter at all either. You haven't known Brittany that long, sure, she's right about that. But you want to. You want to stick around, you're  _going_  to stick around, for as long as she'll have you. And yeah, okay, Whitney is right about the world not accommodating her. But that's what she doesn't understand. She doesn't understand how Brittany has made her  _own_  world. Her own safe place. She had to do it. You understand now, about her reaction to your sign books. You understand her words. You understand, and your heart aches for this girl who paints her world on paper and who shows you it in her universe eyes. She keeps herself safe there. She keeps herself safe, because there's no one else who will do it for her.

"Here mom, your tea is ready."

Brittany comes back carrying the tea for her mother, and you feel yourself burn with shame that you didn't get to respond. You want to tell her all these things. You want to tell her that you want to be around Brittany because she's  _Brittany._  That you want to be around her because she's so special. Because she makes your heart do things it never has before. Because when you kiss her, everything else fades away. You want to be around Brittany, and you don't care if she's deaf, or blind, or polka-dotted. Nothing, nothing changes who she is inside.

The room feels heavy around you with Whitney in it. Brittany seats herself in the armchair alone, pulling her knees to her chest. Otis doesn't lie down at her feet. He sits at attention in front of her, and you notice the way she holds onto him. You don't know what to do. She's closing herself off and it scares you. Your mind is reeling with everything Whitney said, and you hate yourself that you couldn't think fast enough to defend her out loud. You're quick with your tongue, that's who you  _are._  But with Brittany, everything feels so much bigger than words. And you failed, you think. You failed where it really mattered.

Thankfully, Whitney doesn't stay long. She finishes her tea, and suddenly she's in a great hurry to go. You missed a lot of the conversation between them. You were so lost in your head. You were so irritated every time Brittany had to ask her mother to repeat herself. You're new here. It's not your place to judge. You know that. Your mother always told you that anyone else can say what they want about their parents, and you should still never,  _ever_  add your own commentary, but—

"I'm sorry she showed up here. She does that sometimes." Brittany stands over where you sit on the couch, after she shows her mother to the door. "I should have told her we had reservations, I just. I don't know."

"It's okay, Brittany." You look up and her, and you give her a soft smile.

"Santana." Her eyes are serious, so serious, and she sits down beside you. She doesn't touch you, she doesn't find your hand. She just sits. Rigid. Guarded. "She said something to you."

"She—"

"Look, please don't lie to me, okay?" Brittany cuts you off before you can say anything, and Otis rests his head on her knee, letting her stroke him. "I know how she is. She doesn't make an effort to talk  _to_  me so I can understand her, but, I'm actually surprised she waited until my back was turned to say something  _about_  me. She usually doesn't. It's fine. It's fine, really."

"Brittany." You reach over to take her hand, but she retracts it, tucking it between her thighs instead.

"I get it. Okay. I get it. It was hard for her, when I stopped being the smartest kid in class, and when we couldn't go on vacations anymore, because of all the doctors. I get it, and I'm sorry." She doesn't look at you, but you watch the tears trickle out of her eyes, tears she quickly wipes away, tears that you feel the burn of, even though they don't touch you. "I'm sorry that I'm not who she wanted me to be. I am."

"Brittany." You don't know what to do. She won't look at you, and you can't speak to her if she doesn't.

"I've really had a good time with you. And. Thank you for that. I. I get it."

"Brittany." You stand up, and then you sink down to your knees in front of her, because it's all you can think to do to get her attention. She keeps ranting, you can't understand all of her words, but you're trying, you're trying so hard. "Look at me. Please look at me."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm acting like this. You can go."

"Brittany." You say her name again. You need her to know this is for her. Only for her. "She wanted to know why I was spending time with you. She wanted me to know why, and I didn't answer her."

"Santana." The way she says your name is so broken that you think it's entirely possible that your heart begins to bleed. "I understand."

"No." You shake your head. "No you don't."

"Yes, I—"

"Please let me talk." You beg her, and slowly, she nods, stiffening her spine and wiping her eyes. She won't let herself cry anymore, but she clings to Otis, and he doesn't move from where he rests. "I didn't answer her, because I couldn't put all of my reasons into words fast enough. You are—" You pause, you're trying to remember, you'd seen it, you'd banked it in your brain, but you want to get it right. Carefully, you extend the pointer finger of your left hand, and you pinch it between the thumb and pointer of your right. Brittany gasps a little, and you feel you eyes mist.  _Special._  "I'm only just getting to know you, but every day, I want to learn more and more. I want to see more of your world, and I want to show you more of mine. I know that it's hard for you, because you haven't been given much of a reason to by others, but please—" You close your eyes for a moment, but you can still feel hers on you. When you open them again, you see nothing but brimming blue, and you tap your right pointer to your forehead, almost like a salute, and then bring it down to be caught in your left, before pressing that same pointer to your chest.  _Trust me._

Brittany doesn't say anything. Not for a long while. She just stares at you. She just tries to read how sincere you are. And in response, you try to show her. You keep your eyes on her. You don't try to touch her. You just wait. You just wait, because you think, in that moment, that you want this more than anything in the world. You want her trust. You want her to know that you won't hurt her. You want her to know that you won't push her. You want her to know that you'll do everything in your power to prove your worthiness to her.

Slowly, she releases her grip on Otis, and he drops down to his belly. Lying there, covering her feet. She looks at you. She looks at you like maybe  _you're_  the universe, and she folds her fingers into her palms and brings them up to her chest, before turning them outward toward you. You don't know the sign, but you think, you think you understand her. You think her eyes tell you all you need to know.

"I'll try," she mouths, and she opens the palms of her hands for you. Letting you take them. Letting you in.


	5. The Minute You Let Her Under Your Skin

**Brittany**

You're trying. You'd told Santana you'd try, and you are. You're used to thriving on order and routine. It helps your world feel more in your control. But with her. With her it's different. You find you don't need as much. You find that you can be more flexible. You still see her almost every day. You show her the Dream Garden. She takes you to Chanticleer. You hold her hand in the street. She kisses you hello and goodbye.  _Good morning. Goodnight. I'll miss you. I'll see you tomorrow._  You still don't have a word for what you are, but it's okay. It feels like something out of a storybook.

Except. Except you're scared. You're really scared. Terrified. Petrified. Paralyzed by it. When you leave her, you always think maybe, maybe it will be the last time. She's beautiful. She's sweet. She's so, so good to you. But. But you think of other girls. You think of how much better they could be for her. You think of the things they can give her that you can't. She can whisper her secrets into their ears. She can talk to them while she's driving.  _They_  can drive  _her_  places. They can listen to her sing. They can hear her radio show. They can be so much better for her than you can be. But. You can't stop yourself from falling further. You can't stop yourself from hoping, hoping. Hoping that she really means her words. Hoping that she really isn't going anywhere.

It's been over a month. Thirty-six days, to be exact, since you met her. The best thirty-six days of your life. You never stop thinking about her. You think about her while you run, while you paint, while you sip your coffee. She's everywhere. She's in your veins. She's under your skin. She's on your lips and in your hair. Santana Lopez is everywhere, and yet. Yet. You still can't get enough.

She starts work at five-thirty in the morning. You're impressed with her, because she confessed to you that she used to sleep until noon. But the morning slot on the radio is the very best one. The morning shows get the highest ratings. And a job like that? When she was offered it, she jumped on it in an instant. She jumped on it, and she trained herself to go to bed early. To wake up early. To drink lots of coffee. And she loves coffee. Maybe more than you. And you think one day. Maybe soon. If she's still here. Maybe soon, you want to ask her to stay the night. You want to wake up with her and make her coffee in the morning. You want to do other things before that, actually. But first, first you have to stop feeling so afraid.

You find a website. You can't believe you didn't know about it before. But then again. You never really had much interest in the radio. You play music in your head instead. Songs you remember from when you were young. Whitney Houston. Janet Jackson. Spin Doctors. 4 Non Blondes. Your musical dial is stuck on 1993. But you're glad. At least you can remember music at all. You didn't have any use for the radio. Until now. Until Santana. And so, you find a website. You can't believe it. It's a website that captions the radio. It's a website where you can see what it is that Santana does every day. Even if you can't hear her voice.

This website. You found it three days ago. Three days that Santana has gone to work. But you haven't used it. You're not sure why. Actually. You are, but you don't want to admit it. Even to yourself, because it's awful. It makes your stomach drop. It makes you feel like you're breaking your promise to try to trust her. It makes you feel awful, because part of you, a big part of you, is scared to find out what Santana's life is like when you're not around.

But this morning. This morning, you've promised yourself you're going to do it. You're going to read along with her show. You're going to see just what it is this girl you care so deeply about does at work each day. You're going to see her. Another side of her. You want to know all of her sides.

At four-forty-five, the alert band on your wrist vibrates to wake you up. At four-fifty-six, you're standing at the stove percolating coffee, because you know it's so much better that way. At five-twenty-seven, you're back on your bed with your laptop, legs tucked under you, brimming Phillies mug in your hands, and Otis lying at your side. His paws cover his face, because he's clearly not happy with waking up this early. But he's nothing if not loyal, and you slip him a treat in appreciation. Your stomach is knotted. You don't want to be this nervous. You really don't. But you can't help yourself.

Good morning, Philadelphia. You read on the screen, and when Otis' ears perk up, you realize you have the volume on—maybe Mr. Shapiro is right, maybe you  _do_  make a lot of noise— and you realize, you realize it has to be Santana's voice he's hearing. This is WIOQ, and as always, I'm Santana with your work day wake up. Give me a call with your special requests, the phone lines are always open.

Your screen tells you that there's music playing, and Otis sniffs a little at the computer speaker. He's trying to find Santana, you figure. He's so aware of the noise around him that you've thrown him for a loop, letting the voice of his new friend into the house without her body to match. But he doesn't seem to mind, he just lays his head down on the speaker and he waits. He waits with you. Because he wants the song to be over and for her to come back on, just as much as you do.

You're impressed. You're completely impressed with the way she talks to her callers. She makes you laugh. Just as she does in person. She's sweet to them, when they need advice. She's snarky, when they deserve it. She's absolutely incredible at her job, you think, and you have no idea why you were so afraid to listen to her. She's just who you thought she was, and really, really, you can't stop smiling all through the first hour of the program. You're picturing her. Sitting in that chair, headphones on her head, her smile, your favorite smile in the world, on her face. You feel your fingers twitch for a paintbrush, but you can't paint and focus, so you'll have to wait.

In the eight o'clock hour, someone else comes on with her. A man named Jonas, according to your screen. Her words stay red, and his come up yellow, so you can differentiate between who's speaking. Otis is still transfixed. His head is still on the speaker. It makes your stomach twist— in a good way, this time— with the way he seems to care for Santana. Otis is a good judge of character. And you're trying, you're trying, you're trying to let yourself trust.

So, Santana. You read in yellow on the screen. When are you going to come on out and tell Philadelphia about this special lady friend of yours that you haven't shut up about for weeks?

You freeze. You freeze, because it's you. Right? You freeze, because she's been talking about you. You freeze, because sometimes, more than anything, you wish you had someone to talk to about her, too. Besides, of course, Otis. You're surprised he's not sick of her, actually, the way you go on and on about her to him. All the while though, you never really imagined her telling other people about  _you._  Of  _course_  you want to talk about her. She's perfect, really. She's more than any storybook heroine. She's more than anything you could have imagined in your wildest dreams. Of course you could go on about her for days. Years. Centuries. But you. You're just  _you_  and it steals your breath, thinking that even for a single moment, she might talk about you to the other people in her life. It steals your breath away, and it doesn't come back in the seconds you wait to read her response.

Jonas, I'm not going to tell you about my life anymore if you're going to announce it to all of Philly. You imagine her laughing. You don't know why, but you do. You picture her face. Her dancing eyes. Her dimples. It makes you smile. It makes you smile so much that your cheeks hurt, and Otis cocks his head to look at you. Maybe he's hearing her laugh, you're not sure, but you hope. Yes, there's a girl. There's a girl who I care a lot about. And that's all I'm saying.

Come on, Santana. I've already told them all that you've got it bad. And as Philly's favorite source of love advice, you've gotta tell them something about your mystery girl. Just one little thing.

Fine. You wonder if she's rolling her eyes. She does that, even when she's not really all that annoyed about giving in on something. You don't tell her, but you love when she does that. It makes you just want to lean over and kiss her. Well, it makes you want to lean over and kiss her even  _more_  than you usually do. How's this? I'll tell you two. But that's it. Everything's too new, and you know I'm superstitious about messing things up. First thing. She's a painter. Like, such an amazing painter that it'll actually blow your mind. Second thing. She's beautiful. Put her art to shame beautiful. And I'm not just talking about her face. It's her everything. She awes me.

Your eyes fill with tears, and you lose focus on the words on the screen in front of you. Santana is just. You don't even know. She's something else. Without even knowing she does it, she makes you question every single doubt you've ever had. She makes you feel like you're worthy. Like you deserve good things too. Like you really, really can trust her. She describes you, and she doesn't use the word most people would. She calls you a painter. She calls you beautiful. And it's just— She doesn't know you're seeing this, these things she's saying. And yet. Yet she still does it. She does it, you think, you really do think now, more than hope, because she really feels it. And it makes you feel like you're falling even more.

She has a meeting after her show, you know. She'd told you about it yesterday. But now. You're anxious for her to get here. You're anxious just to. You don't even know. Kiss her maybe. Just. See her face.

You're impatient. So impatient. It's raining, so you sit in the window, and you paint. You start an abstract of Boathouse Row at sunset. The view you'd seen at dinner the other night. The view you'd seen while Santana kept her arm around your waist and brought a forkful of her duck breast to your lips. That whole night made you heart race. The sunset, the food, the way she'd showed you the new signs she'd learned.  _Pretty. Happy. Walk. Smile._  The way she'd let you press her against the front of your building. The way she'd wrapped her leg around your waist and tangled her hands in your hair to pull you closer when you kissed her goodnight. The way she looked with eyes desire-black and lipstick passion-smudged, the same colors you dip your brush in as you paint the cusp of nightfall. The way your whole universe in that moment was just the pulse of her heart against your chest, the curl of her tongue in your mouth, the feel of her gasp in your throat.

It was the best date you've had so far, and you think, as you paint. You think about how she'd told all of Philadelphia that  _her_  mystery girl was an amazing painter. You think about it, and your heart races again. You think about it, and you know with every brush stroke, that you're going to give this painting to her. You haven't yet, because you weren't sure. But now. Now you are.

It's the distraction you need. Painting for her. You stop checking your phone every few minutes to see what time it is. You get lost in the piece. You can't believe how quick it's coming along. Until you realize it wasn't all that quick. Otis is on his feet, and you know Santana is on the stairs. You can always tell when it's her now, by the way he reacts. He's so in tune with you, you can't distinguish if they're his emotions, or yours. But you're pretty sure he feels pretty strongly about her, too. When she brought you apple cider donuts, because you told her you love them, and you hate that you can only get them in the fall, she brought him a little stuffed moose. One he keeps in his spot in your bedroom now. When she kisses you too long, and Otis waits, ever-patient, she thanks him for letting her borrow you for a bit. She recognizes something other people don't. She recognizes that he's a part of you. But she also makes sure to treat him like his own being. It makes that thumping in your heart speed up. You're pretty sure she doesn't know what she does to you.

The red light above your door flashes bright, and you smile. You smile so wide. You smile, and you put down your paintbrush. You think about hiding the picture, but you don't. It's not dry, you don't want to ruin it, and you think it'll surprise Santana enough without your making a big ceremony of presenting it to her. You realize as soon as you open the door that you're in your oldest jeans. They hang low on your hips, and the knees are torn from wear, not for aesthetic. Your white t-shirt is less white and more—everycolor. Your hair is piled up on top of your head, and you know you have those paint streaks she likes to wipe off across your face and chest. You look disheveled, but when you look at her face, when you see the way she looks at you, you know it doesn't matter. You wonder. You wonder. You always wonder, if it's normal to feel the way you feel just from the way a person looks at you. But she's not just a person. She's Santana. That makes a difference.

"Santana." You say. She told you, a few weeks ago, that she loves to hear you say her name. You're not sure why. Lots of people say it. It's even on a billboard just on the other side of the Ben Franklin Bridge— you were shocked, when you saw it out her car window one day— but she says she likes the way you say it best. So you do. Because when you say her name, her eyes crinkle. That only happens for you. You've noticed that. Your heart beats so fast then, you think you might need a doctor.

_How are you?_  She speaks it and signs it at the same time. That's another new one for her. When she signs, you think maybe you smile at her like she does when you say her name. You think of the times she's called you special. You know that she's special too.

"Good." You speak and sign back. She's been learning faster by watching you. She asks you to keep doing it.

_I didn't make any plans. I hope that's okay._

"We don't need plans. I'm just glad to see you."

_I'm glad to see you too, Britt._  She's started calling you that lately, and you can't believe how much you like it.  _I'm always glad to see you._

She slips off her shoes. You never asked her to, but she noticed that you do, when you walk in the door, so she started following suit. Otis goes to her as soon as she sits down. He knows to let people get in the door first, but you can see that he's excited to see her. She greets him. She scratches his head. And you wonder if he's thinking about how she managed to get from inside of your computer to outside the door. You offer her a drink, something to eat, but she shakes her head, and she pats the seat beside her. You sign to her that you're going to wash your hands— she knows that one well, she doesn't need the words— and when you come back, having decided just to fix your hair, but not to change your clothes, Otis has his head in her lap. When you sit down beside her, Otis drops down to lie on the floor at both of your feet. Almost immediately, you take her hand. It helps you trust her, when you hold it, and today. Today you feel closer than ever.

"I have to tell you something." You tell her, and you think, maybe, as you see that crease form on her forehead again, that maybe you sounded a little dramatic. "No. It's not a bad something."

_Oh. Okay good. You scared me for a second._  She's earnest, and then she winks. She's warning you that she's going to tease you. You love when she does that, because sometimes her teasing doesn't translate well for you.  _I was a little worried that maybe we had twelve hours to make it out of the city before a solar flare took down the power grid._

"Shut up." You smile. You made her watch  _Doomsday Preppers_  the other night at her house. Not because you would do it, but because you admire their dedication and their organization. She hasn't stopped teasing you about it since. "Besides, you don't have notice if a solar flare is coming. Didn't you watch at all?"

_I might have been a little distracted. You looked really cute in my sweatpants._

"I'm still sorry I spilled wine on your carpet." The tips of your ears burn again, and she brings your hand to her lips and kisses the back of it. She's never done that before. It makes your ears burn brighter.

_I'm getting used to you spilling things. It's okay._

"I don't usually. Only around you." You shrug, and you play with her fingers, when she puts your hand back down. "What I was going to tell you was that I. I found a website. I read your show this morning."

_You_  read  _my show?_  She looks at you, and you think she looks a little squirmy, but she stays still.

"I did. Otis and I woke up at 4:45. I didn't realize the volume was on— I hope it wasn't too loud, but I haven't seen a mean note from Mr. Shapiro so— anyway. Otis really liked hearing your voice. He laid his head on the speaker. And I. I liked it a lot too."

_You did?_

"I did. You're really funny. And the listeners. They. You give them good advice."

_Did you…read the whole thing?_  She looks embarrassed. That's the squirmy look, you realize, and you only sort of understand why.

"I did. Well, except maybe the last twenty minutes. It's real time, and, I got a little distracted."

_So you…Brittany. I hope it's okay that I….talked about you. I never do, not on air, but Jonas was teasing me. And I got caught up, and…I don't know, I really liked_   _talking about you. But I won't if—_

You have to lean over and kiss her to make her stop talking. She's rambling. She's wringing her hands. She's adorable. Really. You didn't think that she would think you'd be unhappy or uncomfortable with it. You could never be. She was saying all these perfect, perfect things, and you wish  _you_  had a way to tell the whole world how special you think  _she_  is.

"It made me feel really good, Santana. You. Talking about me."

_Yeah?_  Her eyes sparkle and you. You're taken by them. You always are.

"Yeah. Really yeah. And Jonas called me your mystery girl. And. I liked that."

_You're okay with that? I know we haven't talked about it—we've just been dating, and we didn't name this. But, I'm falling for you, Brittany. I'm falling for you, and, I've wanted to ask you properly._

Santana pauses. She pauses, and she squeezes both of your hands, and then gently puts them down in your lap. You see her take a deep breath, and point to herself, before turning her palms upward, curling the fingers slightly and pulling them toward her body, then pointing to you.  _I want you._  You blush. You blush, you're sure, from the ends of your hair all the way down to your toes. You don't think that anyone has ever used those words for you. You're not pitying yourself. You're just. You're thinking the truth. It's the first time. And that makes Santana telling you this even more. If there's such thing as even more than  _everything._  I want you, too, you mouth it to her, and she smiles again. She smiles her  _you_  smile, before she raises an eyebrow a little, not teasing, questioning. Her right fist, thumb poking out, strokes her cheek, and then, her pointers extend, and she crosses them. First right on top, then left on top of right.  _Girlfriend._

"Yes." You tell her. Maybe you sound like you're croaking. You don't know. Your throat. It has a lump so big, you don't think you can swallow. You're trying. You're trying, and you're doing it. You make the sign back to her. You make it again, and again, and you don't care if you seem ridiculous doing it. Then you think. You think you have to speak it. You wish you knew all of the languages in the universe. Because then. Then everyone would know. Everyone would know how lucky you are. "I'm your girlfriend."

_And I'm yours._  She still has her smile. You still have yours. The one you hope  _she_  knows is only hers. And eyes wet, you lean toward her, you press your palms to each of her cheeks, and you kiss her. You give her more in that kiss than you think you ever have before, and you feel it. You feel the way she does the same to you in return.


	6. She Looked At Me and I, I Could See

**Santana**

Sometimes you can't believe this is real. You can't believe that Brittany just basically fell into your lap, and now here you are. She's your girlfriend. It's a pretty amazing feeling. It's been two weeks since you'd asked her, and the butterflies in your stomach still haven't settled about it. You tell your mom about her. You've never really told her about anyone you're dating. You never really cared enough to. But Brittany, you want to tell everyone about her. Your mom tells you she's happy for you. She wants to know when you're going to drive down and see her— and you better bring Brittany, she's adamant about that. You tell her not yet. Soon, maybe, but not yet. You love your mother, but she's a lot. She speaks rapid-fire, she switches between English and Spanish. You know she would never intentionally make Brittany feel put out, but, you want to make sure she's ready. Things are rocky with her own mom. You don't want them to be rocky with yours.

Jonas teases you. He complains you don't want to go out and help him pick up chicks anymore. He sing-songs about your  _girlfriend_ like he's seven. It doesn't make you want to punch him. It actually just makes you really smile. He wants to meet her. Your other friends want to meet her, when you go out for drinks with them. You can't stop talking about her, they tell you. And you know it's true. You're completely enamored with her. And you promise them. You promise them soon. Because you want her to meet them, too. You want her to be part of your whole life. You've never felt this way before. You think maybe it should scare you. But it doesn't. It doesn't scare you at all.

She gave you a painting. The butterflies. They were more out of control than they'd ever been before when she did that. You love it. You love it so much. You were afraid to bring it to be framed. Even though she promised you nothing would happen to it. Even though she promised that even if something  _did_ , she would paint you another. But it wouldn't be  _that_ one. It wouldn't be the one she made thinking about your favorite date. The date where you could see the sunset flicker in her eyes, the same colors that she'd managed to capture, somehow perfectly, in watercolors. So instead, she'd helped you frame it yourself, leaning over her kitchen counter, cutting the mat, and looking up, catching you staring at her. It hangs across from your bed now. It's the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning. It's the last thing you see when you go to bed at night. Sunsets and colors and universe eyes. Brittany. Always Brittany.

You decide to go to the beach. You haven't been all summer, and Brittany. She hasn't been there in years. Her eyes light up when you suggest it, and though you love to see that, it also makes you feel a little sad. It makes you feel sad, because you think of her family, and how— No. You've promised yourself you won't do that. You won't feel sad when something makes her happy. You won't dwell on her family. Because now she has you. Now she has you. You'll make her as happy as you can. No matter what.

Early in the morning, you wake up, because you try and keep your routine, even on weekends. You pack a beach bag, and you're excited. You're really excited, more so, because you know across town, she is too. You have towels and sunscreen and a big sheet and an umbrella loaded into the trunk of your car by eight am. Brittany told you that she would pack the cooler. You've noticed it, in these nearly two months, that she likes taking care of you. She likes inviting you over so she can cook you dinner. She likes getting up to refill your wine glass when it's empty. She likes giving you her sweater on cool nights, because you forgot to pack one. She likes kissing your forehead, and smiling against it. And you like it too. You like it a lot. You like it more than you ever thought you would. You've always been fiercely independent, but with Brittany. With Brittany, you feel yourself shifting.

When you were really young, your mom cleaned houses on Fire Island in the summer to make extra money. She'd take the train, and then a bus, and then the ferry to get there, all before the sun came up. She'd take you with her, every day, and you never complained. You loved the beach. You always did. You'd sleep in her arms on the way, and you'd wake up, in a little red wagon bumping along the wood-slatted walkway, surrounded by her cleaning supplies. She'd clean all day, and you'd find ways to occupy yourself. You'd pile left-behind shells on the big decks overlooking the bright blue ocean. You'd find board games and books and crayons on the rainy days. You'd imagine. You'd imagine that the house was yours. You'd imagine that your mom didn't have to go to work all day. You'd imagine that you had someone to come clean it for you. You'd imagine all sorts of things. And when you were done, it was okay. You knew that you were still lucky as you were. Your mom had told you that, that  _both of you_ were lucky, even before you could remember her saying that.

Cape May isn't Fire Island. But that's okay. It's only an hour and a half drive outside of the city, and it's pretty there. It's pretty, and Brittany told you that it's the beach she went to when she was young. You're surprised, when you pull up in front of her house, that she's already outside, sitting on the steps with Otis, cooler between her feet. You have to remember to breathe, when she stands up. She takes your breath away. She does it all the time. But now, now she's just, she's something else. Coming from underneath her white tank top and shredded jean shorts, you can see the strings of her bright purple bikini, and you know, you know that behind her sunglasses, her eyes are smirking. She knows you're staring. She can always tell, and yet, yet you just can't stop yourself. She's gorgeous. Greek statue worthy, you think—and you possibly told her that, at the Penn Museum, earning yourself a kiss, and a whole lot of teasing.

"Hey." She beams, when you open the trunk and get out of the car, coming up in front of her and kissing her lips. You bring your right hand up over your face, a grabbing motion, and she looks down, blushing. "You're going to make my head big, Santana."

"Well it's true, you  _are_ beautiful." You shrug. Her modesty is just. It's something else.

"You too."

You kiss her again. Letting it linger a little longer, this time. When you pull away, you roll your eyes and wave to Mr. Shapiro, looking out his window at you, like he seems to always be doing. You say hello to Otis, feeling bad that you neglected to, but he's quick to forgive, and he wags his tail, before climbing into your back seat. While Brittany buckles him in, ever cautious about his safety, you put the cooler in the trunk, and you just keep smiling, watching her through the rear window.

When you're back in the car, Brittany in the passenger seat, she surprises you. She always seems to be doing that. Out of her purse, she pulls a big metal thermos of coffee. Her coffee. The best coffee you've ever tasted. Even if you were giving a totally unbiased opinion. You swoon a little, at her sweetness. You swoon a little, because you don't know how she manages to make you fall faster, faster, with every passing second. It's just coffee. Except it's not. It's that taking-care-of-you thing she does.

You forget, the ninety-minute drive between Philadelphia and Cape May is on a good day. But it's a Saturday in August, so it takes you nearly two hours. You finish the coffee in the first forty-five minutes, Brittany sipping it occasionally, too. You love that. You love the rhythm you've fallen into. It's easy and right. It's different than any relationship you've been in. The best kind of different. When the coffee is gone, when you have full use of your right hand, Brittany finds it. She finds it, and she sets her own hand on top of it, lacing your fingers together. She does that whenever you're in the car now, and you love that too. You might love that most of all. You may not be able to communicate easily with words while you're driving, but you can communicate without them. Just the weight of her hand. Just the way her fingers fit between yours. It tells you oh so much.

When you finally get to the shore— it's still tough for you to say that, you're a New Yorker, you call it the beach— it takes a little while to find parking. You're so anxious to get out of the car, but the way Brittany's thumb rubs at the outside of your wrist, it calms you. You finally find one, and it's a decent walk from where you want to be, but it's okay. You're here. You've got Brittany. The sun is shining, she has her arm around her shoulder, and you think, it just might be impossible for your life to get any better.

Together, you spread out the sheet on the sand. She takes off her shirt, and you help her put sunscreen on her back. The feeling of your fingertips on her skin ignites something deep within you. You haven't taken your relationship to  _that_ level yet, but you've learned, you've learned in your weeks with her, that sometimes the most intimate touches aren't sexual. Sometimes the most intimate touches are ones like this. Or the ones where she squeezes your neck to calm you down after a stressful workday. Or even her handholds. No one else has ever been able to ignite you like this. And now that you've felt it, you can just never get enough.

You lie awhile on the blanket, side by side, just the tips of your fingers touching, and you love it. Otis lies on a towel beside Brittany. You both laugh, because he really doesn't like his belly in the sand. He reminds you of Brittany sometimes, the way he likes things a certain way, and you love that. You love that, because the understanding between them, it's magical. Lying there, it doesn't take you too long before you feel restless. You've always been like that. You can't just lie on the beach. The sun gets to you, and you need to be active or asleep, either one. But today, the butterflies don't let you sleep. So you ask Brittany to walk with you, and she nods, picking up Otis' leash.

The crowd of people thins out the further you walk, and those moments, where all you can see is open beach instead of a sea of beach chairs and umbrellas, they're exceptionally nice. Brittany lets the lead out on Otis' leash a little, something she rarely does. Though he doesn't like to lie in the sand, he certainly likes to run in it. He seems so carefree,  _she_ seems so carefree, and your heart feels light. You're glad you took the day out of the city. You're glad you have her in a place where she doesn't fear errant cars and people moving too fast. She relaxes into you, and you rest your head on her shoulder. It's perfect, the way you fit together, you think. She's perfect, the way she stops and picks up scallop shells to put in her pockets, the way she writes your initials with driftwood in the sand, the way she's just, yours, so uninhibitedly.

"Lunch?" She asks you, when you return to your blanket, and you just smile and nod.

She doesn't pack like you would, throwing deli sandwiches into a cooler. She has plates. She has sliced fruit. She has brie and chicken salad. She has lemonade that you know she made herself, and it's a close second to her coffee. You take such pleasure in these things about her. You take such pleasure in how she's so amazingly different from any other person you've ever met. You take such pleasure in how she's so amazingly different from  _you._ And the butterflies, they must take pleasure in it too. They're riled up again. Over chicken salad. You think maybe it's a little ridiculous, but you don't care.

"Britt." You speak her name, and then you take your finger tips to your lips and bring them downward.

"No, thank  _you_. I love it here. I'm glad you had this idea. I know the beach is special to you."

"Someday, hopefully, I'll take you to mine." You tell her, and you're surprised just how easily plans for the future slip out. But you're not surprised you're making them. You're not surprised at all.

"I'd like that." She gives you that smile in return. That smile where her bottom lip sticks out just a little, the happiest sort of disbelief, you think. It's surreal, for both of you, what you've become. But. It's beautiful. It's wonderful.

The conversation lulls as you eat. You're enjoying her honey and walnut chicken salad entirely too much to carry on a coherent conversation, and you think, you think maybe she's enjoying  _watching you_  eat it too much to try on her end. A laugh breaks free from her lips when you're just about done, and you raise an eyebrow at her, trying to figure out just what she finds so funny. She pulls both of her pointers toward her body, and you roll your eyes at her a little. She's teasing you with that sign. She told you when you started using it that you could just call her closer with the crook of one finger. But, you're learning another language, you'd told her, you want to be as accurate as possible. You lean in, you think she's going to kiss you, but then, she uses her thumb to wipe chicken salad from your bottom lip, and something, something happens inside of you. This strange shift. You're hit with an uncontrollable urge, and before you can stop to consider your words—

"I love you." It's clear. Entirely clear, your words. Entirely clear, the sentiment. It's like it broke free, and runs wild through your veins. You'd been falling, falling, but you'd almost forgotten toward what. It had been easy. So easy. Right. So right, that you hadn't seen it coming. And now you're here. The words are out. The words are out, and you feel them, so strong.

Brittany's eyes are wide, and that's when you suck your lips into your mouth. You're afraid you've scared her. You're afraid that maybe she'll think it's too fast. But. You can't unsay them. And you don't want to unsay them, because you can't  _un-feel_ them. Even if she doesn't. Even if she's not ready. You'll wait. You'll wait if you have to. You love her. That's what this is. That's what the butterflies were telling you. Maybe they'd been telling you since you met her. But now, now. You love her, and she knows.

"I—" She takes a minute. She closes her eyes, and you wait. You wait, and you hope. Even if you're okay not hearing them now, you still hope. Because you love her. You love this beautiful woman. This woman with universe eyes. This woman who, you think, sees more of you than you've ever let anyone else see. This woman who you  _know_ lets you see more of her. Slowly, slowly, she raises her flat palm, and when she pulls down her ring and middle finger, you gasp. You gasp, because she's saying it too. You gasp because she  _loves you too,_ and the butterflies get all caught up in your throat. "Love you too."

"You?"

"I." She nods vigorously, and you, you want to sign it to her. You want to sign it to her, even more than you want to speak it again. You do, and you see her eyes sparkle, heavy with those tears she gets when things get overwhelming. She takes your molded hand, and she, she brings it to her lips, kissing the bend of your fingers. It's perfect, perfect, and you bring your other hand to her face, imploring her to drop your hand so you can borrow her lips.

"I love you." You say again, but you say it into her mouth. You know she feels it as only a hum in her throat, but you know she feels your words.

You fall asleep. You fall asleep on your stomach, the next time you lie down. When your eyes flutter open, the first thing you see is Brittany. She has her head propped up on her hand, and she's watching you. She watches you so intently sometimes, that you think she repaints you in her mind. Brushstroke, brushstroke, on her tapestry of thoughts. Maybe you're being a silly romantic, but you can't help yourself. You think of her as music, and you hope, you hope, she thinks of you in her art form, too.

It's getting late. You know you've got a long drive home, but Brittany wants to put her feet in the ocean. You know she doesn't like the water much. You understand it. She doesn't take baths, and she's cautious of guard rails when you're by the river. But she wants to do this, she wants you to hold her hand while she dips her toes in the salty sea. And you do. You'll always hold her hand, because you love her— you can't stop thinking it. You love her. You love her, and you swell with pride when she leans on you, and she stands in that big raging ocean, letting the water come up to her knees. She looks beautiful like that. Hair swept up by the wind, eyes closed, cheeks a little tinged by the sun, and you have to close  _your_ eyes. You want that picture of her. Your brave, brave Brittany. You want that picture of her kept away in your mind forever.

She's fidgety on the way home. You can feel the way she squirms in her seat. You look at Otis in the rearview mirror, and you think he's unsure how to read her behavior, too. The traffic is a nightmare. You have to keep your eyes on the road, but you want to talk to her. You want to know that she's alright. You think, you think for several minutes, before you take her hand that holds yours, and you turn it palm upward. She doesn't realize what you're doing at first, maybe she thinks you're just drawing on her skin, but then, then it hits her. The letters you make. You're asking her if she's okay, and you see, out of the corner of her eye, the way she smiles. The way it somehow seems to relax her a little. The way she looks at you. That way that makes you feel more alive than ever before.

"I'm okay, promise." She speaks out loud, and you nod. "I just. Tonight. Stay the night with me, Santana."

The words catch you off guard. But you understand her nervousness. You understand her fidgeting. You understand, you think, what she's truly saying. She's letting you further in. She's taking another step. And even if it's just sleeping, sharing her bed with her, and nothing more, it's big. Her space is sacred, and she's let you in so much. Her space, her order, her routine, they're precious. But each and every day she fits you more inside. Each and every day, she lets her guard down more and more. You love her, and she loves you, and your worlds, they're twisting together. You nod your head, slowly, surely, and your pointer draws the letters into her skin, because you'll say it once, you'll say it a thousand times, in each and every way you know how. For her, for this thing you're building, the answer is always bound to be yes.


	7. How To Unfold Your Love

**Brittany**

Your knees jiggle, a little, for the rest of the car ride back. You're not nervous, really. You're just. You're mentally preparing yourself. Every day, you emerge a little bit more from with your hard, safe shell. You're like a turtle sometimes, you think. But Santana. She's not a jaguar, or a leopard. She doesn't come at you quickly, and startle you back inside, just as you're poking your head out. She waits patiently. She strokes your shell, sometimes, maybe, too. She gives you a reason to come out. She loves you. She loves you, she loves you. And sometimes. When you scare yourself. She tells you it's okay to hide away for a little bit. She'll still be here. You love her. You love her so much. You can't believe it.

She's the sweetest thing when you get back to your house. It's not even anything she says or does really. She just is. Her presence. It just. It does something to you. She's windswept and sandy, and she tries to get as much as she can off her calves before she comes inside. You tell her it's okay. You take clothes out from your drawer. Sweatpants and a tank top. You walk on your toes a little. You're not sure why. You show her to your bathroom. You know she's been in there a hundred times. At least. But. This feels different. This  _is_ different. Santana thanks you with a kiss. It's a tiny little kiss, but it makes your toes curl. It makes your toes curl, because maybe, maybe.

Otis needs to go out. Or maybe. Maybe Otis knows that you could probably use a few minutes. So you write her a note. Just in case she comes out while you're gone. And you walk to Walnut Street, Otis, purposely, maybe, taking his time. The farmer's market is just closing, when you reach it. And you think. You think that you  _didn't_ think. Not about dinner. You frown a little, because. Santana's spending the night with you, and. You want dinner and wine. You have wine. But. You don't want to call for takeout. You want to cook, because you love that crinkly-eyed smile she gives you. You want to cook, because it makes you so happy to make her happy. You never want to stop doing that. So you think. You think as fast as your mind will allow you to, to come up with something. And you find Carlo, the nice old man who sells vegetables and cheese. He knows you can't hear, and he doesn't care. He lets you rifle through his things, and he takes your money. You understand each other. You always have.

When you get back home, tomatoes and garlic chives and pea mozzarella in a paper bag, Santana is sitting on your couch. She's sitting on your couch, wearing your clothes, her hair pulled up messy, even the tiny hint of makeup she'd worn to the beach washed away. She looks natural. And beautiful. More, more beautiful than you've ever seen. You want to fall into her arms. You want to kiss her senseless. You just  _want._ Your whole self aches with it. And your heart. It's more than racing now. Seeing her. In your house, like she's always belonged there. Your heart has moved on to full-fledged marathons. And you think. You think, and you look away, because if you don't, you might have a heart attack.

Your hands fidget. You cut the tomatoes, and the garlic chives. And you want to roast them, it will give you some time to shower. Because you're salty and sandy. And Santana. She's clean and soft and you know. You know she smells like your shampoo. And. Maybe the sensation will overwhelm you less, if you smell the same. Or maybe not. Maybe it's impossible for you to ever not be overwhelmed by her. She's something. Something, something. And when you sign to her that you're taking a shower, she just smiles and nods. She sees that you might crawl into your shell, just for a little bit. So she's careful. She's so, so careful. And you love her more.

_It smells good in here._ She tells you, when you re-emerge, sleep shorts and a t-shirt on. You dug through your drawers trying to figure out what to wear. You just. You don't know. You want to look good. But. You want to look natural too. So you settled on this. And her eyes, when they roam over your body— she's not subtle, though she tries— you think you made a good choice.  _Otis and I, we snuck a peek. I hope you don't mind._

"Not at all." You smile. You're picturing it. You wish you'd seen. The two of them, peeking into the oven. Your heart. It really can't handle her. "Do you want some wine?"

_Only if you let me pour._ When you pull a face, she shakes her head.  _You're cooking, Britt. Let me do something._

"Okay. But then. You sit."

_You're spoiling me, Brittany Pierce. I don't know what to do with you._ She tucks her head a little, that blushy thing she does. And you just, you have to bend down to kiss her.

"Let me." You make a circular motion with your hand over your chest. She stands up, she takes both of your hands and she just. She swings them a little between your bodies.

_Okay._

You have your back to her while you're at the stove, boiling the water for the orecchiette. You appreciate the irony of that. The pasta. Not the facing away from her. Once you pull the tomatoes out of the oven, you can turn to her again, sitting at the counter, and you watch her bring her glass to her lips. Watching her, watching you. You have to lift your own glass. Your throat is dry from the burn of her eyes, and you hope. You hope maybe, the wine will make it easier for you to swallow. It doesn't, really, but you savor the taste, anyway. You savor the everything. You want to keep this night, this whole day, really, forever and ever.

When dinner is ready, you bring the dishes to the table and she takes her seat. You love that.  _Her_ seat. It's another way. Another way she fits into your life. Whenever you're here, she sits there, and you sit across from her. She likes to practice her signs while you eat. You're not sure if she knows that she's allowed to sign left-handed, but she doesn't. She signs with her right, and you don't want to correct her. Because she, she's put so much effort in, and it's all just still so wonderful to you. You think maybe, maybe, she can see how your heart finds its way into your eyes when she drops her fork to use two hands. She signs  _perfect._ About the food, she means. But. It's true for a lot of things.

She clears the dishes. She rinses them. Rinses them so they're basically clean, because that's how you load them in the dishwasher. You feed Otis, and when you're done, you come up behind her at the sink. You have this urge to just, wrap your arms around her waist and rest your chin on her shoulder, so you do. The closeness you want with her. It's so different than anything you've ever experienced. You like your space. You like your bubble, your turtle shell. But. She's an exception to your everything. The sink still runs, but she stops her rinsing. She stops, and she leans back into you. You smell your shampoo in her hair. And you were right. It's not less overwhelming after your shower. It's more, maybe. You don't know.

_H-i._ She writes on your palm with her finger, and you're surprised you can understand it. You're surprised, because she tilts her head and kisses your neck, and, you feel some sort of noise vibrate low in your throat. It's hard to breathe, let alone spell.

"Leave the dishes." You tell her. You feel her body tense. In a good way. You think. Then she turns in your arms, and she kisses you. She kisses you slow. Deep. Her tongue, mapping the inside of your mouth. And you bring three fingers to her neck. You like to feel the way her heart pulses when she kisses you. "Hi, Santana."

The way she feels, pressed against you, it's. It's everything. You want her. You want her so badly. It's been building, building, building. For weeks. She's so careful with you. So gentle. So full of love, even before you called it love. But. Even when she's careful and gentle, you both still feel it. You both still have hands that wander when you lie on the couch, kissing until you can't breathe. And you. You want her in your space. You want her everywhere. You want everything with her, and you know she knows it. You feel it in the way her heartbeat pounds in her neck. You see it in the way, when she opens her eyes, they're black, black, black. You want her. And she wants you. And you're ready. So ready.

For a moment, you stop touching her. You need to communicate with words. Words in both languages. You bring your palm to your cheek, and then brush it against the back of your other hand, opening them up before you. You look to the open door on the other side of the room, and you kiss her again, speaking the syllables against her lips.  _Bedroom_. That's where you want to be. That's where you want her. In your bed. With less clothing on. Or no clothing on. Yes. That second one. It's better. You want her. It burns beneath your skin the way you do. It burns through your veins. It burns in your heart. So much that it might burst from the heat.

_Brittany._ She pulls back, and she looks at you. You read your name on her lips. You watch the way she searches your face. And you nod.

"I want you." You tell her. "I want all of you."

_I want you too._ The burning in your heart. You see it in her black eyes. They flicker, and the flames, they lick at you. They overwhelm you. They make your knees weak.

Santana feels the way you tremble. She feels that slight buckle, and she holds you up. She holds you around your waist, and you love her more. She doesn't question your desire. She doesn't question your certainty. But she holds you. She holds you until you're ready. And you suck in as much air as you can. This. What's about to happen. It's going to steal all your breath. So you need to save as much as you can. Store it up inside of you. Hope. Hope that you'll manage to keep from drowning entirely in her. She signs that she loves you, and you think her hands shake too. You think, you think, that maybe you overwhelm her too.

You take her hand. When you think you won't fall down on your gelatin knees, you take it, and you lead her. It's your innermost sanctuary, your bedroom. You don't have anyone, really, in your home anyway, but your bedroom, it's still your place. It's your place, and you're inviting her in. You're inviting her to love you, in every way. You're inviting her to love you, with her body, too, since she's already done so with her soul. And you're asking her. You're asking her to let you love her just the same. You close your door behind you both. And it's just the two of you, wrapped in each other.

Both of you, you know what's coming, but there isn't a rush. She's staying the night. The first of many, you hope, you hope. And you've fantasized about this. In the shower, after she's left you at night. In this very bedroom. But now, now she's here. Now this isn't a fantasy. You're leaving your shell off to the side, and you're giving yourself to her, vulnerable, open. Because she's her. She's Santana. She's like no one else you've ever met. She doesn't look through you. She sees you. She sees all of you. She loves you. She wants you. And you trust her. You trust her with all your heart.

"I love you." You speak into her hair. Her hair that smells like your shampoo, surrounding you. You can't see her face, but on your stomach, where your shirt has begun to rise up, she draws hearts, hearts, hearts, while she sucks the sensitive skin just below your ear.

Santana is on top of you. You're both fully clothed still, but your hands are under the tank top of yours she wears. Her skin. It's soft and warm. Her breath on your neck, when she releases the pressure, comes out in spurts. Her eyes keep finding yours, and you love her more for that. You're trying not to drown, because already, already, it feels too good. Already, it's different, although nothing you're doing is new. Already it's different, because you know, you know, it will be soon.

_Can I?_  She kneels up so her face is fully in your view, and her fingers play at the hem of your shirt. You nod, because you don't think you can speak. You nod, because yes, yes of course she can. And you shiver as you lift your arms for her. You shiver, as her fingers graze your sides, ridding your body of the garment. You shiver, as the cool air hits your bare skin. You shiver, most of all, as she looks at you. Eyes full of adoration. Eyes full of want. Eyes full of everything you thought you'd never have. Everything you never even thought you wanted.  _If you want me to stop_ —

"I don't." You wonder, you wonder, what your voice sounds like. You're sure it's cracking. You're sure it's different. But she looks at you, with all that love, and you don't care about anything but that. "I'm yours."

_And I am yours. But, if you_ —

"I know. And I will." You promise her. "But I trust you. I trust you with all of me, Santana."

It's what she needs to hear, you think, before she can continue. But once you say it. Once she  _feels_ it, the love, the trust, the  _everything_ that pours from your eyes into hers. She just. Kisses you. Kisses you in a way she never has before. And when she pulls back again, she lifts her own shirt from her body, and she reveals herself to you. Beautiful. Naked. Absolutely everything. You're unsure even what to do. You want to touch her everywhere, you want her to touch  _you_ everywhere. And before, before you can even process your thoughts, she lowers her head to your chest, and her mouth is on you.

Your heart. Your heart. It races. It races because the heat that shoots down between your legs from the way her tongue traces your nipple. It races, because Santana. Santana. Santana. She's everywhere. She's everything. And she doesn't break eye contact with you. She understands. You don't even know how. But she understands what you need, without you speaking the words. You need her to keep looking at you. You need her eyes. You trust her eyes. You love her eyes. And without them, you think you'll drown in this glorious sensation.

_I'm going to…_ She lifts her mouth from you, just when you think you're about to explode, and she hooks her thumbs into your shorts.  _Okay?_

"Okay." You're not sure it's even a word, so you sign it too. And then, and then, her lips are back on yours, just where you need them most, as she helps you slide your shorts down long legs. She knows again, she knows what else you want, and she removes her own, letting bare legs tangle with bare legs, making you shiver. Again, again, again. "Santana."

_I love you, I love you._  She lifts her head up to tell you one more time, and then you feel her fingers, tickling your inner thighs. Making you squirm. Making you want. Making you ache.

The way your hips cant up, it's not something you can control. And you feel her smile against your mouth. You know you do, and she moves higher, higher, until she's just about touching you where you need her most. You think, you think the word  _please_ escapes your lips, but you can't be sure. All you can comprehend is Santana. And even that's a struggle. She's here, she's here, she's in your space in the most intimate way imaginable, and you want her even closer. She stops kissing you. She has to, you think. She knows. She knows you'll stop breathing, and instead, she rests her forehead on yours. Eyes level, her fingers brush you, and you're sensitive, swollen, needy.

You're in ecstasy. It's the only way to describe the way you feel as she touches you. She's gentle, so gentle. But she's deliberate. She checks in with you, over and over with her eyes. She never breaks the contact. She stays with you. She stays with you, and you love her more. Because the way she touches you, without seeing her face, you know it'll be too much. You feel the noises you make. You feel them, and you see the way she reacts to them written in her eyes. She's doing this to you, and she knows, she knows how perfect it is. You feel yourself coiling, coiling, coiling. And then, then you have to kiss her. You need to, you need your lips on hers when she makes you fall apart.

When you shatter, she holds you. She keeps kissing you. And it's just. It's beyond anything you've imagined. It's beyond anything you've ever done to yourself. It's her. You love her, and that love, it amplifies every physical sensation. You think you've stopped breathing. But she holds you still. It's not until she slowly, carefully, pulls her fingers from where they're buried inside of you that you can manage to close your eyes. The sensation won't overcome you then. She's close, she's kissing your face, but you won't get lost. You just need a minute, a minute, to get yourself together. And then. Then you want to make her feel what she made you.

"Santana." You squirm a little beneath her, and you watch, you watch how she smiles, you feel how her fingers draw those love hearts on your body again. "I want to."

_You don't have to._ She's so earnest, so full of love, and you shake your head.

"I know. But."

She understands. And she lets you push her down on her back. She lets you take your place on top of her. She lets you fumble a little, as you try to figure out how best to touch her. Again, you want to touch all of her at once. And again, you also want to sit back and stare at her beautiful body. But. Neither will work, and instead, instead, you mirror what she did to you. She guides your hand down sooner than you would have gone, but you realize. You realize from the sensations you're getting just touching her, that what she did to you, it has her more than ready for you. You touch her, your fingers slipping through with ease. And you suck in as much air as you can. Because this. Feeling her. Making her feel good. It's the greatest thing you've ever felt. Better even than the feeling of her deep inside of you.

What happens next. It shocks you. What happens next. It's everything. Everything. She finds your other hand. She finds it, and she kisses the fingertips, before she brings them to her throat. Not to where her pulse is, but, better. To her voice box. You know her heart. You know how it beats and races. You feel it all the time. But this. She wants you to feel her moans and squeaks. She wants you to know. To know what you do to her, even if you can't hear it. You want to cry, almost. Because she, she thinks of everything. But you won't. You're too entranced by the vibrations, matching them up with her parted lips, with the curl of your fingers inside of her. It's beautiful, she's beautiful, and when you push her over the edge, her sex tightens against one hand, and her throat against the other. And you think, you think this might be what heaven feels like.

_Brittany._ She lies limp beside you, minutes or hours, maybe, later. When you've both come down, when you're both just, basking. In this feeling. In each other. In so much.  _Brittany, Brittany._

"Santana." You say back, and you tuck her bed messed hair behind her ear, holding her cheek with your hand. You're naked, against her. You're naked, and yet, yet, you don't feel afraid. You don't feel like you're searching for your shell. Not with her. Not right now. "Santana. Santana."


	8. There's a Shadow Hanging Over Me

**Santana**

Two and a half months with Brittany, they've flown by. Before you know it, the entire summer is gone, and you're in September. You're in September, and the relationship between the two of you, it's growing, stronger, stronger, every day. You spend the night together more and more, mostly at her house, because she likes her routine and her order, and you're not all that attached to your place, but sometimes you do stay there too. You have food and water bowls for Otis there now. You keep a bag of his organic dog food and the treats that he likes. He's found a spot in your living room, between the couch and your bookshelf where he sleeps. And you and Brittany? She bought you a toothbrush one day, leaving it beside hers at the sink. Then you did the same in return, for her. You're making each other comfortable. You've started leaving things at each others' too. Your panties end up in her laundry, her sweaters end up left draped over the back of your couch. And you just keep them, creating drawers for each other without even trying. You're getting deeper, deeper in, and you love it.

She's met Jonas, she likes him, and he likes her a lot, too. You're glad, because really, he's your closest friend in the city. Your closest friend probably anywhere. But, your other friends, they want to meet her, too. You haven't seen much of them, since mostly, when you do see them, you end up at the bar or at a boisterous dinner with a group of them. And really, you'd rather have dinner, or drinks, or movie cuddles with Brittany. But they've been texting you. Individually, as a group, whatever it takes to get your attention, and finally, you ask Brittany how she feels about meeting your old college friends for drinks on Friday night.

Brittany agrees to go. She seems excited about it, even, you think. And you're glad for that. It's not that you even care so much about  _going_. It's just that, you love her, and the idea of other people in your life knowing this amazing woman who changed your world, that means something to you. You're both busy most of the day Friday. You have meetings at the studio after your show, and she's behind on some of her illustrations. So after you leave her bed at four am, you don't see her all day. But, it's the night, and, it feels like it's something really huge.

You're running a little late, after getting ready at your apartment, and when she lets you in to her place, she's in a tank top and her underwear. Clothes are strewn everywhere, in a very un-Brittany like way, and Otis, he doesn't know what to make of this. You worry when she's like this. When her answers to you are clipped. When she doesn't make eye contact with you. But you know there's nothing you can do but give her space. You know, even suggesting you cancel and stay in won't do anything but put her in more of a frenzy. So you sit down on the couch, and you wait, you wait a good half hour, until she finally emerges from her bedroom again, wearing that dress you loved her in on your very first date.

"Hi, Britt." You smile at her finally, and you stand. She'd been in such a state when she'd opened the door for you that she hadn't even said hello, she just let you in and went back to her bedroom. She sucks her lips into her mouth, a little sheepish, and she steps toward you. Letting you kiss her hello. You sign to her that she's beautiful. She looks down at the floor. You feel what she's doing. You feel shut out. But, she'll come back, you hope.

"Hey. Sorry, I'm just. It just took me awhile to get ready."

"It's okay." You play with the ends of her curled hair. She really does look beautiful, so beautiful. But, at the cost of her feeling like this, you're not sure her getting ready efforts were so worth it. "Are you guys ready to go?"

"Just me tonight." She takes a breath, and she looks at Otis, who lies down on the carpet. In all the time you've been together, you've never seen him not at her side, and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, unsure what to say. Before you can respond though, she takes her hand and places it over yours, squeezing a little. "I've got you, and Otis deserves a night off."

You don't question her. You would never. It's her choice, and she knows herself far better than you do. But, you're still a little concerned. Not even about that, just about how off she seems. She's nervous. You understand it. She doesn't like being around new people. But, it doesn't mean you like seeing her like this. It doesn't mean you don't hate when she second guesses herself, and how special she is. You tell her every day. In the morning, at night, in between. You kiss her, you hold her, you love her. But you're one person, and after years, years, there's only so much you can do.

It's a nice night, so you walk. Brittany puts her arm around your waist, and she leans into you a little. She feels heavy. You can't describe it, but you notice it sometimes. Her heaviness. You want to take some of it from her, carry it. But you can't. It's impossible, it's too deep inside of her. So instead, you just offer her a place to lean. You offer her a place to run, when the weight on her back exhausts her. You love her harder, because it's all you can give to her. But even your love, it doesn't do as much as you hope.

When you reach the bar, you find yourself a little nervous. You've known these people since college. They might not be your best friends, but they've been around a long time. They're the people you hang out with, because other than Jonas, you never really made adult friends. They've been around a long time, and since your college ex-girlfriend, you've never brought anyone around. You've dated enough, sure. You've hooked up. But you haven't fallen in love. Not like this, not with a person that you want the whole world to know about. This feels like such a big deal to you. Because Brittany, she's a big deal. Brittany. She's everything to you. And all of this, it's such uncharted territory. And you're treading carefully. Because the last thing you want is for anything to mess this up.

"Ready?" You ask her. You stand across from her, you look in her eyes. She seems like she's calmed a little, and you're glad for that.

"Yeah. You're sure I look okay though? My hair's not too…?"

"I  _love_ your hair like this." You touch it for emphasis, and you stroke your thumb over her cheek. You hate this, you hate this.

"I'm sorry I'm being…"

"Don't be sorry." You shake your head. "Not for feeling how you feel. You're sure you—"

"Yes. I want to go." She cuts you off quickly, snappy, even, and you sigh. Taking her hand in yours and nodding, before you turn to walk in the door.

You're late. You're always late though. They expect this of you. But you'd kind of wanted to be early this time. You'd wanted to have time to settle in with Brittany. You always feel bad when you think things like that. You know she doesn't need special accommodation for going to a bar. But, you like to let her have whatever time she needs. And, now you're late. And Marcus and Patty and Charlie are kind of staring, watching you walk toward the back of the bar, Brittany's hand in yours.

You hadn't told them she was deaf. You realize that, as you're walking toward them. Really, truly, you hadn't thought of mentioning it, not when you'd first started dating. Not when you just couldn't stop gushing about how beautiful she was. About her paintings. About the restaurants she'd shown you, ones that you never knew existed. But now, now, as you're walking toward them, your whole body flashes hot. Not hot with embarrassment that she  _is._ You really, really couldn't care less if she was deaf or blind or had four arms. She'd still be Brittany, and you'd still love her no matter what. No. You're hot with embarrassment because you don't want her to think you willfully kept it from them because  _you're_  embarrassed to be with her. And so you squirm. You squirm so much as you walk through the bar that you think you might be sick. You screwed up, you think. You screwed up, and you don't know how to fix it.

Marcus wolf-whistles when you approach the table, but you're too distracted to even roll your eyes. You pull out Brittany's chair, and once she's seated, you sit beside her and you hold her hand tightly under the table. Your butterflies, they've turned black, you think. They've settled to the bottom of your stomach like a lump of lead, and before you even introduce Brittany to your friends, you've flagged down the waitress, and you're ordering two vodka tonics. You're hoping they get here quick enough to numb the sting of your self-loathing. You're hoping they get here quickly, because you're probably going to need to order another.

"So you're the infamous Brittany." Patty reaches out his hand, and Charlie elbows him in the side.

"Infamous means famous in a bad way, dumbass."

"Whatever. It's nice to meet you, Brittany."

"It's nice to meet you, too." She extends her hand, shaking each of the three of theirs in turn, and it's Charlie who looks at you. It's Charlie who realizes first.

It doesn't take long before the other two figure it out. They can tell by the way she speaks. By the way she doesn't say all that much. By the way she stares at their lips, rather than their eyes, when they speak. They can tell, when you turn to sign things to her. Because you're going to act the way you normally do with her. You're not going to ruin your night just because sometimes, you lack forethought. You're not going to raise a red flag over her head, because it really just doesn't matter. None of them say anything about it. But you think, you think maybe Charlie kicked Marcus under the table. She's good like that. She's probably the only one you'd choose as a friend at this point in your life. The other two, you like them enough. But college and real life are different. They're a little immature, or, a lot immature, and— Your thoughts are interrupted by Brittany tracing her pointer up your thigh, getting your attention. She raises her fist and wiggles it back and forth to you.

"Do you want me to come?" You ask her, and she shakes her head, kissing your lips quickly.

"Stay with your friends, I'll be right back."

You watch her, just for a few steps, as she stands and walks away, and you smile. You smile, because this beautiful woman is yours, you smile, because despite the rocky beginning to your evening, it seems to be going pretty well. Brittany seems to feel more comfortable, she'd entwined her leg with yours, she'd pulled your hand into her lap, she'd poked you playfully in the ribs when you'd stolen the extra lime from her drink. The bottom of your stomach still feels a little off, but, those butterflies are funny sometimes.

"Well,  _that_ was a surprise." Marcus looks pointedly at you, and you actually feel the table shake when Charlie kicks him again. "What? Char, act like you weren't shocked, too."

"Not,  _shocked,_ just a little surprised Santana didn't tell us. I mean, the last time we saw you, Santana, you were all dreamy eyed and wouldn't shut up about her. It just seems like a big thing to leave out."

"I just— didn't think about it. It's just one thing about her." You find yourself getting defensive, your back arches, and you meet Marcus' eyes. You feel something coming from him, something you don't like, and coupled with your displeasure with yourself, it's not a good thing.

"Oh, please." He rolls his eyes at you. "You didn't  _think about it?_ You're over here learning sign language and shit. Of course you think about it. She must be a  _real_ firecracker in bed to get you like this, Lopez. All googly-eyed and stupid."

"It's not like that,  _Marcus."_ You grit your teeth and your hands ball into fists at your side. You're fighting the urge to jump up and hit him. Rage rushes through your veins. It's not even his words, so much as his tone, and then, then he starts mimicking the way she speaks, and you just—

"Marcus, stop." Charlie snaps, while Patty fidgets in his seat, unsure what to do with himself.

"Oh, c'mon, it's not like she can hear me."

"No, but  _I_ can."

You're boiling. You don't think you've ever been this angry. You're so angry that you find yourself on your feet. You're twenty-seven years old, and you've never hit a person. Not when you were a kid and they said things about your mom. Not when you thought for five minutes about pledging a sorority and then dropped out halfway through rush because the frat boys called you a slut, and then a dyke when they realized you wouldn't sleep with them. Not ever. Nothing, nothing, in all your life has made you as mad as Marcus fucking Greenberg doing what you can only assume is his impression of Brittany in bed, and before you know it, you've got your hand on the collar of his shirt, ready to destroy his pretty face. This isn't you. This isn't you, but, it's Brittany, he's making fun of Brittany. And you love her, you love her more than anything. The fury, it possesses you, and you pull back your arm, ready to hurt him.

"Santana." Her voice is low, even, when you hear it, and she has her hand on your lower back, making you freeze. Making you let go of him. Making you just, wish you could melt into the floor. Or really, making you wish you'd never come here at all. "Don't."

"Let's go, Brittany." You turn away from the table, and you look at her. You look at her, and in her eyes, you see that she doesn't need to hear the story to know what was going on. You see that she's heavy, so heavy. So heavy that you think, you think, even leaning on you, it just won't be enough.

She doesn't hold your hand when you walk home. She's lost. Lost all the way inside of herself, and your throat, it's just, it's not working. It's clogged with unshed tears. It's clogged with anger. It's clogged with utter mortification. This isn't what you'd expected to happen. Marcus, you know he's an idiot sometimes, but you hadn't expected him to be so, offensive. You love her, you love her, and you want everyone to see how wonderful she is. You'd made the mistake, not telling them. But, it shouldn't have mattered. They shouldn't need to be prepared for something that doesn't even scratch the surface of who Brittany is. You made a mistake, and now, now Brittany is tucked away inside that protective wall she builds around herself, and you're not sure you'll find the key to get in.

"Britt—" You start. You're standing outside of her house, and you turn so you're facing her. She has her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes, her eyes are breaking your heart.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Brittany, I—"

"Santana, I said I don't want to talk about it. I just want to go to bed."

"I know, but—"

"But what? What are you going to say? I know he said something about me. I know he probably told you that you were too good for me—"

"No, Britt—" You try to argue, because it was Marcus being a total and complete asshole, and you're sure you will  _never_  speak to him again, but, he hadn't said that, you would _never_  let him say that. You'd never let anyone say that.

"And he's right, you know. He's right, look at you. Look at us. You spend all your time with me, you worry over me, I don't meet your friends for two and a half months, because I don't handle being around other people well. And then I finally do, and look, I find you about to punch a guy you've known for eight years. You've got this whole life, this, whole, whole, big life, and I—" The tears start falling from her eyes, and she wipes them quickly. She doesn't want you to see her crying, but it's too late. You do, and your heart, it aches, it aches more than ever before. "I'm just me. It's not that I can't hear, Santana. It's that I'm just me, and you're you. You say you don't see it, but how can you not? How can you not see that I'm never going to fit right in your world? How can you not see that things like this are going to happen, and, you shouldn't have to…"

"Brittany!" You find yourself screaming. You're not screaming for her benefit, obviously, but for your own. You're angry. You're angry, angry, angry at everything. At Marcus. At her parents. At the whole damn world, really. But mostly, you're angry at yourself. You're angry at yourself, because you're trying to make her see, but you're failing. You keep failing, and it hurts. "You're not even letting me talk! It doesn't  _matter_ what he said! How can you not see that? How can you not see when I look at you like you're  _everything?_ Why is it so hard for you to believe me?"

"It's hard, because if I let myself and I'm wrong, then I don't think I can handle it, Santana. I can take a lot of things, but I don't think I can take being heartbroken by you. I'm in too deep now, and I just, it's too much."

"Brittany." You say her name again, crying openly now. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know what I'm saying. I just know that you, you're too much for me sometimes. I feel too many things all at once. I love you too much, and I don't know what to do with that. My own mother thinks you're too good for me, and your friends—"

"I don't  _care_ what anyone else thinks. Because it's not true! If you think I give two shits about  _anyone_ but you and my mom, then maybe you don't even know me at all."

"Well maybe I do, Santana. Maybe I care what they think and say. About me, yeah, but mostly about you, because you're with me. Maybe I care too much about you for this. Maybe I care too much that I—that I go to the bathroom, and I don't know what I even missed, but, you—you're protecting me, and I don't want to need your protection. Maybe I'm just so afraid all the time, even when I think I'm not. It's hard for me to believe that this isn't going to hurt."

"Britt. Please." You sign your pleas desperately. You sign that you love her. You're begging, in both spoken words and sign for her to trust you, but she just shakes her head. She shakes her head, and you grab the lamppost beside you. Because you think you might crumble to the ground. She's being entirely irrational. Except she's not. She's been conditioned to believe these things. And that, that kills you. "You  _promised_ me. You promised me you'd try to trust me."

"And I've been trying. But. But I just. I just. I'm too scared, and I can't."

"That's not  _fair."_ You clench your fists at your sides. She's hurting you. She's hurting you so much, because she's hurt herself. She's hurt from something you didn't do, she's hurt from something you want to fix. She's hurt and it's ripping your fucking heart out. "I  _love you,_ I love you so much."

"I love you too. And I don't want to fight with you. I can't. Santana I can't do this tonight. I'm going upstairs." You see the tears, the tears that fall from her eyes and hit the pavement beneath her feet. You go to reach out to brush them away, because Brittany crying? It makes you wish the world would swallow you whole. You reach out to brush them, and she puts her hand up, telling you to stop. She turns to walk through the door, and when you follow, she turns back around. She turns back around, and she shakes her head again. She shakes her head, with tears streaming down her face, and you, you're powerless. "Go home, Santana. Please. Please let me have tonight to think. Please just give me a little space right now."

You freeze. It's another promise you made to her. An unspoken one, that you'd give her space when she needs, because all this is new for her. You freeze. And she leaves you. She leaves you standing outside of her door, Mr. Shapiro peering through his curtains. She leaves you, because she thinks she's not good enough. She leaves you, and you crumble. You crumble, because she's everything. She's everything and more, and you don't know how you'll ever make her see. You see the light flicker on upstairs, and you just, you know, there is nothing you can do now but go home. And there's nothing you want to do less that that. So you linger, and you hope. You linger, and you look at the light above you. You linger, and you squeeze your eyes closed, hoping, praying, that she doesn't let the rest of the world get the best of her. That once she has space and time, she'll let you back in her protective shell again. That she'll let you show her that she's worth so, so much more than she believes herself to be.

 


	9. Here I Stand, Head In Hand

**Brittany**

When you walk through the door, you make it to the window bench, and you collapse. You collapse, because you just— You don't know what you're doing. You don't know what you did. You don't know how to  _be._ You don't know  _why_ you can't just, let it be as it is. Except that you do. You know why. You'd said it. You know that if she breaks your heart, you won't know how to exist anymore. You know that you'd been a mess all day. You know that you should have talked to her before you'd gone out, because your love, hidden away, it's different than your love out in the world. It's different, at least for you, because you know when it's just the two of you, you're not afraid of what people will say. You don't feel your skin burn. Because you're you, and she's her. When it's just the two of you, you don't feel like you don't fit.

It hurts. It hurts so much. When you didn't know what it was like. It was different. You didn't think you were missing anything. But now. Now you're in so deep and— Maybe you were better off before her. Maybe you were better off by yourself. Maybe you were better off not knowing what it felt like to be loved. Maybe you were better off when no one touched you. When no one held you close and kissed every inch of your skin. Maybe you were better off when no one tried. When there was no Santana, who promised you things and looked at you with those earnest fire eyes. Maybe you were better off not knowing. Because now you know, and now, if it changes. Now you can never go back to as you were before. You're scared. It's all just. New. And hard. And you're messing it up by trying not to.

You curl up there, in your little window bench overlooking Rittenhouse Square. You curl up there, in the place that lets you watch the world without partaking in it. Otis. He comes to you. He puts his head on you, and you just. Lie with him. He's your safe place. He won't hurt you. No one will tell him you're not good enough. Because it's his job. It's his job to stay with you. You see her. She's still outside. She stays outside for a long time. And she's crying. She leans against the lamppost and she's crying. You cry along with her, even though you're apart. You cry along with her, because seeing her cry, it ruins you. You don't know what you did. You don't know if you should run down the stairs now, and— No. No you can't. Your body, it just doesn't even know how to move right now. You're just, paralyzed. And you're so, so angry with yourself. You didn't let her talk. You don't even know what her friend, what he said to make her lunge at him like that. And you don't want to know. Sometimes, mostly, you're glad that you can't hear. Because. You can pretend that what people say when you aren't looking isn't there. You can pretend, but. But not with her. She can't pretend, because she hears it. And you, you don't want her to. You wish she couldn't hear too, sometimes, at least the bad things, because. Because, maybe then you wouldn't be so scared that it would get into her head. That it would someday change that she thinks you're special. That those fire eyes would change from love to frustration.

You can't stop crying. You've never cried so much in your life, you think. She walks away, shoulders hunched. She walks away, because you told her to. But. But. But. It hurts. The pain in your chest. It's just. It consumes you. She makes  _you_  feel like fire. But  _this_  fire, it's not from her. It's from inside of you, it's choking you. This fire, this ache of what you might have done. It's consuming you. Otis. He stays with you. And when you finally stop looking at the empty sidewalk below you. When you scrub what's left of the makeup off your face. When you tear your dress from your body. When you put on the sweatshirt that smells like her, the one she wears at night now that it's getting cooler. When you fall into your bed, trying not to snuggle into the pillow she uses. He doesn't leave your side. He lets you bury your face in his fur. He lets you cry. He doesn't judge you. And that's why. That's why he's your very best friend. You cry about that too. You cry because you just, you don't even know. You cry, because you did this. You pushed her away. Because as close as you've gotten, you're afraid. And when your phone vibrates with three words from her. You just, type them back, but, you ask her again to give you space. Because space. It's the only way you're going to figure yourself out.

When you wake up, you feel hungover. But. You only had one drink last night. Your headache, that sick feeling in your stomach, that general feeling of  _awful_ that feels like it's in every fiber of your being. It's not from the alcohol. You roll over, you hope, you hope, that maybe this was all a dream. That maybe you didn't argue with Santana in the street last night. That maybe she didn't almost get into a fight in the bar. But. She's not in your bed. Otis is. Otis, who sleeps with you when you're in a really bad place. Otis, who you'd left behind last night, because you were embarrassed, or, didn't want to embarrass Santana, you're not sure. Otis, who takes care of you, always. You reach over to the nightstand, you find your phone where you left it before you fell asleep. There's an unread message from her, one single message, sent at one-thirty this morning, a response to your text message. And taking a deep breath, you open it. You open it, and she tells you,  _I'm here when you're ready_. That's it. No pushing, no nothing. Just those words and a single red heart.

You hold the phone in your hand for a long while. Otis has his head on your stomach, looking up at you. He knows. He must. What with the crying. And with the absence of Santana. It's not like you spend  _every_  night together. But, more often than not, especially on the weekends, she's here. Or you go over there, and she spoils him rotten. Because she loves him. And she loves you. She loves you, and she's so good to you, and you're just. You're feeling really, really broken and vulnerable after last night. You want to talk to her. No. You  _need_ to talk to her. But. Your heart hurts. Your heart hurts a lot. And now. Now you feel even more afraid than you did last night. Now, after all that went on in the street, you just, don't even know where to begin to explain yourself. You should have talked to her when you were feeling messy before you left. You think you could have avoided blowing up because of what happened. But. You didn't. So now you've gotta try to figure this out.

Over and over again, you turn the screen of your phone on and off. The lock screen, it's the two of you. Her chin is on your shoulder, and she. She just, has that crinkly eyed smile on, and your eyes are closed. She took you by surprise, snapping the picture on your phone. She'd made you laugh, and, you can see it on both of your faces. Just the way you love each other. Just. Her. Santana. The woman you can't describe with words. And your heart. It squeezes, squeezes, squeezes until you can't breathe. You're so confused, so upset. You think of her. And you want the best things in the world for her. But. You can't stop feeling afraid that you're not it. You want to be. You want to be, more than anything, and when you look at her. Crinkly eyes and dimples. It just, it makes you feel like maybe you could be. Like maybe just making her smile is enough. But last night. Last night you'd made her cry. Last night was a disaster.

You look at the clock. It's barely after seven. You look at the clock, and you know she's awake. But. You're just. You're trying. You're really trying. Even after last night, when you'd told her you can't. You still are. You want to believe you're worthy of her. You want it so bad. And some days, some days she really makes you feel it. But yesterday. Yesterday you found your turtle shell again. Yesterday, all the other things in your head, they drowned her out. Your mom. The people who push and tease. Marcus. And worst of all. Yourself. You don't self-pity. You don't. It's your rule, one you made a long time ago, if you wanted to make it on your own. But, you'd had a low day, a scared day. A day when everything felt so loud, even though you can't hear at all. And now. You need to talk to her. You need to talk to Santana. You need to try to muddle through this. With her. Because doing it alone now? It seems impossible.

So you drag yourself out of bed. You take two Advil, and, after you look in the mirror and see your swollen, blotchy face, you get in the shower. You're stalling. You know you're stalling. But. You just need to have a fresh start. You need the tears gone from your hair and the remnants of mascara gone from your face. You need the physical reminders of last night gone, because the emotional ones are enough. You make coffee when you're done in the shower. You make enough for two, and then. Then you text her. You text her just one word at first, because you're not sure how to start. You text her one word, and you hope, you hope for both of you, that you're doing the right thing.  _Hi._

She answers right away. So fast that the vibration surprises you, and you nearly burn yourself on the percolator. Your hands are shaking. This, after all the two of you have done together, this simple text message exchange is making you more nervous than anything, and you suck in a breath, before you read her response.  _Hey._ Your heart. It's doing somersaults in your chest. Your heart, it's responding violently to a single word. A single word that just, tells you she doesn't hate you, you think. A single word, that leaves this open for you. And you send her another message. _Thank you for giving me space. Can we talk?_ You send it, and then, immediately send another.  _Please?_

Anxiously, you wait. Once she tells you she'll be over soon. Anxiously, you pace the floors. You open and close the refrigerator. You open and close the cabinets. You debate making breakfast. But. You don't think you even remember how. Your mind is just full, full, full of twisty, squirmy thoughts. So you don't. You just take the coffee mug she always uses,  _her_ coffee mug, you think, the Phillies mug she'd made fun of, but still uses, and you set it on the counter. You set it on the counter and wait. Wait, wait. Until the light above your door flashes red, and you have to steel yourself. Your knees buckle, you're so nervous. But. It's just Santana. It's just Santana, except, Santana. She's everything.

_Hi._ You open the door, and she's there. Jeans and a black sweater. And her face. Her face. You can tell she's been crying. Your heart, it lies down flat inside of you. Because you hate that you made her cry. You hate this. And you have to push, push, push back down the nagging thoughts in your mind.  _If you made her cry, then—_ No. No. No. You can also make her smile. Make her smile that special crinkly smile. And you love her. You're going to be good enough.

"Hey."

You let her in, and Otis, he waits for your direction to go to her. And when he does, Santana, she rubs his belly furiously. She just. She has heartbreak eyes when she does. Like she's scared you're about to make things worse, and she wants to say a proper goodbye to him first. And the tears, they prick the backs of your eyes. Because you hurt her. You hurt her trying to keep from hurting her. You hurt her, trying to keep from getting hurt yourself. And that's not fair. It's not right.

She sits down across from you at the table. You pour her coffee, and you set it in front of her. Besides the  _hi_  and  _hey_  at the door, you haven't exchanged any other words. You haven't kissed her good morning. Though you want to. You want to so bad. You didn't kiss her goodnight last night, and, it's funny how those little things, those everyday things, when they're missing, they just make you feel off balance. You think, even if you weren't having this  _thing_ right now, this terrible weirdness, you'd still feel off, if you didn't give her a kiss. But. Words first. Words that are hard for you to make. Words. Because you both deserve non-hysterical words now.

"Santana, I—" You pause, and you look at her for a second. Both hands on the mug, watching you, watching you. Waiting. "I just…I love you."

_I love you too, Britt._ You wish, you wish you could hear the way her words sound. Because. It makes a difference. It really does. If she's angry, or sad, or defeated. But. Really, all those things are bad, and her heartbreak eyes, they're tearing through you.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you like that last night and then walked away without giving you a chance to say what you wanted to say. And. I'm sorry."

_You're right, you shouldn't have._ She picks a little at the cuticle of her thumb, but she never stops looking at you.  _I understand you were upset, and so was I. But when you push me away from you, Brittany, I can't— I just can't._

"You just. You scare me so much sometimes, Santana."

_Why though? I've never, ever given you reason to be afraid of me. And I try, I try so hard…_ She brings her palms up and wipes her eyes, and your fingers twitch. They twitch to reach out and touch her. To comfort her. But you aren't sure if, if you should just yet. Because words. You still need more words.

"I know." You look down. Because her eyes. They just. They're so intense. "And I'm trying too. I am. I'm not afraid of you because of you. I'm afraid of you because of me. And, I do, I do look at you and see that I'm everything in your eyes, like you said last night. And. I just, I think, nothing scares me more than thinking I might look in them someday and see that I'm not anymore. I'm afraid that someday I'm going to embarrass you, like—"

_Brittany. Sweetheart._  She uses the endearment, and your heart, it oozes a little. Then she reaches across the table, and she finds your hand. She finds it, and she fits it right in hers. Squeezing it. Letting it be engulfed in her warm, sure grip.  _You could never, okay? Nothing about you is embarrassing. Not Otis. Not the way you speak, or your excited little squeals. They're some of my favorite things about you. I made a mistake last night, not telling my friends you were deaf before you met them. But it wasn't because I'm embarrassed of that. It was because it just really just, doesn't define you for me. I'm not a fortune teller. I wish, so much, that I could sit here and promise you that nothing will ever change from how it is right now. But, I can't do that, Britt. All I can promise you is that I'm going to work my ass off to make this relationship work, if you'll work with me, if you won't run away from me when you feel like things are hard. Relationships, they're built on faith and trust and love. I have faith and trust in us._

"I want to, Santana. I want to more than anything. It's just really hard for me."

_I know. I know it is. I came into your life after you'd been told for so long that you're not good enough. I can't just magically erase all that. But—_ She looks at you, she looks  _in_ you, and she squeezes your hand, tight, so tight.  _I'm not your mom, Brittany. What anyone else says or thinks is never going to change what I think of you._

"Santana." You feel the tears in your eyes, you feel them run down your cheeks and burst on the table. You feel the way they burn on the way down. And you. You just. You feel something break inside of you.

_Nothing._ She lets go of your hand, and she signs the word for it as well.  _That, I can promise you. But. I need you to work with me. Brittany, you and I, we're in a relationship._ You watch her take a breath, and then she points to you, and then to herself. She takes her right hand, and rubs the side of it against her flat left palm, before bringing them both down to her side.  _We're partners. You and me. And I know sometimes you need space, but what happened last night, you can't do that again. You can't run away from me in the middle of a heated discussion like that. It's not fair. To me, or to you either._

"I know. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was just—it was a lot." You press your fingertips together and then pull them apart. Her hands find yours again. They take them. They hold them. They just. Anchor your whole body. "I don't want to push you away. But, I don't want to trap you either."

_You're not trapping me. Please, Britt. Stop with that. If I want to go, I'm free to go._ You feel yourself wince, but she keeps stroking, stroking with her thumb. She keeps her eyes on you. She just. She's something.  _But I don't want to. I want to be with you. And I want us to figure this all out together._

"I want that too." You nod. "I don't want to mess it up."

_You won't. You just need to tell me what you need when you need it. And you need to stay, even when you want to run._

"Okay," you tell her, and you watch a tiny smile creep to her lips. A tiny smile that makes your heart flutter. It's not crinkly eyes, but. It's still her. It's still her, and, you bring your clasped hands to your lips, just holding them there, just, thanking her, apologizing to her, loving her, always loving her, even without words.

_Yeah?_

"Yeah. I just, I might need you to remind you of that sometimes. You're the only person in the whole word who makes me not want to be afraid. Who makes me not want to hide."

_I know that's scary, Britt. And I know that the world is shitty and mean, and that we're still learning each other. I'm sorry, that someone I considered my friend made you feel worse. I'm sorry you left Otis home, because I know why you did, and—_

"You don't have to apologize, Santana."

_I know that I don't, but I want to. I want you to know that Marcus, he's nothing. And, I want you to see where I come from, Brittany. I think it'll help you to understand me a little better. I want you to meet my mom, because then I just think you'll see it. Why what the world says will never change what I think of you._

"You. You want me to meet your mom?" you gasp. You don't know why you're gasping, really, except that. Her mom. It's different than her friends. It's so much different. Her mom, she talks about her all the time. She talks about the woman who gave her everything to raise her, to make sure she had a better life, and. Her friends, that's one thing, going really, really bad, but, her mom—

_Hey._ She must read it on your face. That you're scared, or, not even scared, just, overwhelmed, you think is a better word.  _I've wanted you to meet her from basically the moment I met you. But, if you don't want to, or you're not ready, that's okay too. She's not going anywhere._

"It's not that I don't want to." You shake your head quickly. "But she's your mom. She's your mom."

_She's my mom. Who I tell everything to. My mom knows that you're the best thing that ever happened to me. Britt, I made mistakes last night, but, my mom, she's not like them, okay? Never, ever again would I put us in a position like that. Because ignorant jackasses have no place in my life. They never have, you can ask my mother, we weed them out as they come, we always have._

"Okay." You find your head bobbing up and down. Slow. But sure. Entirely certain. She's offering to twine more of your lives together, and scary, scary, scary as it is, you feel her fingers between yours, and you know, you know. It's inevitable. Because you don't want this to end. Ever. And as it continues. As you go deeper, deeper in with her. The twining, it's going to keep happen.

_Okay?_ She affirms, and you let go of her hands and again, turning your palms upward and curling the fingers as you pull them toward you.  _Want._ You use that sign more than ever with her. You think. Because she asks you what you want. And she wants you to tell her honestly.

"I want to."

_My two favorite people in the whole world._  She smiles. Her crinkly smile. Her dimples, beaming. Her lips, curled up and perfect. And you lean across the table. You lean across and just, kiss her. Soft. Tender. Just. Full of all the love you have for her. Full of love so big it makes you feel like you're falling all the time. But love you can't let go of.  _She'll be thrilled. She's been waiting._

"She has?"

_It's not every day some girl makes Santana Lopez all moony inside._ She winks at you.  _Us Lopez women, we're fiercely independent. But, there's an exception to every rule. You're my exception, Brittany Pierce._

"You're so good with all these love words." You feel your face flame as you sit back down, and she just takes another sip of her coffee. Smiling. Still smiling. And her puffy eyes, maybe they don't look so puffy anymore when they crinkle. You'd hurt you both, but, you think, you think, you're really trying to fix it. You're really trying to be better inside, because she deserves the best. And in being so scared you aren't, you're only making things harder.

_You make me feel them._ She shrugs, and then she yawns, stretching her hands up over her head. You sign to her, asking if she's tired, and she shrugs a little again.  _I didn't sleep much last night._

"Neither did I. I'm-"

_I forgive you. No more apologies, okay? We're working on it._

"Okay. Partnership. I can do this, with you."

_I know you can. I have so much faith in you._ She says those words, more words that haven't been said to you before, and your heart flutters. It flutters, because it's more than love words. So, so much more.  _But, I think maybe it'll be easier to do if we start with a nap._

"That's a really good idea."

You take the mugs, you put them in the sink, and she follows you to your bedroom. The bed is still unmade and rumpled. Your discarded clothes from last night are still all over. It's messy. It's not like you, but, it's okay. Mess, sometimes you need it. And you watch her. You watch Santana as she leans over and picks up your dress and puts it in the hamper. You watch as she folds your jeans and puts them back in the drawer. You watch, and you understand. You understand what she's saying without the words. You understand.  _Life isn't always neat and orderly, Brittany. Life isn't always the way you think it's going to go. But I'll help you. I'll help you clean up the mess, and I'll help you navigate through it._ She doesn't say the words, but understand. You understand them as she smooths the bed sheets and slips out of her clothes, laying them over the chair. You understand them as she pulls the sweatshirt you'd slept in over her head and lies down on the bed. You understand them as you pull off your sweatpants and slide under the covers behind her wrapping her in your arms- because she's strong and brave and tough, but she still likes being your little spoon. You understand them as you tangle your bare legs with hers, and she traces letters on your hand because you can't see her lips. More than just hearts on skin. The letters that spell out what those hearts mean. Bigger than hearts. Bigger than fear. Bigger than anything you've ever known before.

"I love you too, Santana." You tell her, even though you think she might already be asleep. Her whole body soft and squishy in your arms. You breathe her in, all of her. And you touch your fingers to her throat. You feel her heartbeat. Strong. Sure. Reminding you that it'll be okay. And not pulling them away, you fall asleep. Just like that. Just with her close, close to you.


	10. You Were Only Waiting For This Moment To Arise

**Santana**

Two weeks pass before you're able to go up and see your mom. She calls you even more than she normally does, preparing for your visit. You feel bad, because it's been awhile. But she understands. She understands you're wrapped up in new love. And she can't wait to meet this girl who's stolen her only child's heart. She can't wait, and you can't wait either. You're bubbling, really, your two favorite people. Your mom and your girlfriend, they're finally going to meet, and it has those butterflies in your stomach all kinds of riled up again.

Things have been better with Brittany, you think. True to her word, she's trying. She's communicating with you. She's telling you when things are too much, or when she needs a night alone to just sort out her head. And you're falling, deeper, deeper in love with her. You didn't think it was possible, but when she looks at you sometimes, it's just, some kind of amazing. Especially because it's cuddle weather now, earlier than you thought it would come, but it's here, and when you're not spending the evenings watching her paint in some kind of frenzy, because she's still behind schedule, you've got her in your arms. You're holding her while you watch a movie, you're kissing her, or you're pinned beneath her as she explores your body, because there's nothing better than body heat to combat the nip of early fall.

You think she's excited about going to Queens. You've been talking about it a lot. You've discussed it, and you decided to stay overnight. You and Brittany on your mom's pullout couch. Otis finding a spot there too. Them, fitting into another part of your life. Them, in the place where you came from. So you pack, throwing jeans and sweaters and pajamas and extra socks, because your mom's apartment is always a little cold, in a duffle bag. You answer Brittany's photo texts with pictures of clothes, and you tell her she doesn't need to bring anything fancy. Your mom, she's going to be impressed with Brittany as she is. She's going to embrace her, and cook for her, and just, treat her like her own. What she packs, it doesn't really matter, but, you know Brittany, and you know orderly things like this soothe her. So you help her pick out clothes from across town, and you just smile to yourself, thinking of your amazing girl.

She's not in a frenzy when you pick her up. You're so, so relieved about that, it's indescribable. She just comes downstairs, Otis at her side and an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Otis' things, they're already in your trunk, you'd picked them up last night, and you'd maybe, maybe bought him a new stuffed dragon for the car ride. Brittany, she accuses you, with a smile, of spoiling him. But you can't help yourself. He takes care of Brittany, he makes her feel safer, and, for that reason, you think he's more deserving than anyone in the world of special treats.

"Are you ready for this?" You stand across from her on the sidewalk, once Otis and her things are loaded into the car. You just swing your hands between your bodies, and you look deep in her eyes.

"I am." She nods, slow, but sure. She's been preparing so much inside, you know, even more than the packing and the talking to you about it. You love her, this wonderful girl, you love her so much, and you just, lean in to kiss her lips.

"She's gonna love you, Britt."

"I hope so." You see it, you see the way the corners of her lips curl up in a tiny shy smile, before she sucks them into her mouth. Like she doesn't want to be too hopeful, but, it's there. That little hope, that little  _faith_ that someone as important to you as your mother is going to see how truly special she is.

You feel Brittany's eyes on you as you drive. She likes to watch you, and you love that feeling. You're not sure why, but, there's just _something_ about the two of you in the car together, her palm upturned on your thigh, so you can draw letters there. Something good. Something truly amazing. You've done this drive so many times, this drive back to where you come from, but now, now it feels really different. Now, you're bringing Brittany with you, and, you think, of all the people you've known in your life, you've never, ever revealed to any where you've come from. The thing is, you're not ashamed of your childhood, of your past. On the contrary, you're proud of yourself, you're proud of your  _mom,_ even more, for what she's given you. But, there's just never been a person who you wanted to know you like this, not until Brittany. Because Brittany, she's different. Brittany, you think, maybe, as new as this is, she could really be your forever. And it doesn't scare you, not even in the slightest.

As you get closer, closer to the city, you feel the butterflies slowly awaken in your stomach. It's strange to you, the way it always happens when you go home, back to the place your mother worked so hard to get you out of, but now, it's more. Now, they're good butterflies, because, Brittany, your Brittany, she's learning you. Slowly, slowly, you're opening yourself up. You'd told her, with limbs twisted under her covers one night, how your mom had you when she was sixteen, how you'd never known a father, because her boyfriend, he'd wanted nothing to do with you, or her, if she kept you. And that meant for her, he was gone forever. You'd told her, in the park one afternoon, while she took a break from painting the changing leaves and had a streak of orange on her chin, how you'd only met your grandparents once, in Key Foods, nine years after they'd thrown her out of their house just for getting pregnant— or really, just for throwing away the future they'd planned for her. You'd told her, lying with your head in her lap on your couch as she played with your hair, how you'd line up at the church every August so you could get "new" clothes for the school year from the donation box. You'd told her, sharing a sticky bun at Kermit's, how the day you got your acceptance letter and full scholarship to UPenn, on what seemed like a fluke, though you were the Valedictorian of your class, your mom cried. Because all the long hours and sore feet and sacrifices had been worth it, you'd made it out, you'd been the one who'd done what she'd failed to do. Slowly, slowly, you've been revealing your most precious secrets. Because, like you'd told Brittany, relationships are based on faith and trust, and you trust her to keep safe the things you hold so close to your heart.

Brittany stops looking at you, just for a little while, once you reach Staten Island. She'd told you last week that she hadn't been to New York since she was really young, and it's one of those things that make you twist inside. It's one of those things that remind you of what she'd said about her mom complaining they couldn't go on vacations anymore. It's one of those things that make you ache inside, because New York City is barely two and a half hours by car. It's one of those things that make you burn, because they'd  _other_ ed Brittany, when there was no reason for her to be  _other_ ed. But, then you think, as you watch her out of the corner of your eye, an almost childlike wonder spreading across her face, that those things they denied her? You get to give them back. You get to share them with her. You get to remind her, every day of her life, of the amazing things in the world, and the amazing things  _she_ brings to it. You can't change her past, you can't change your own, but you have the future, this whole beautiful future spread out in front of you, and you love how much the two of you, together, make the most of every single day.

Brooklyn and Queens, they're not as picturesque as the view of Manhattan from the bridge, but Brittany, she remains enthralled, and you realize, maybe it has more to do with it being where you come from than this Hollywood idea of the city.

There's traffic, there's always traffic in Queens, and while you mutter curses under your breath on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Brittany squeezes your thigh. You're getting close, she knows you're getting close, and you draw a heart on the back of her hand before you cover it completely with yours. You take her along the back roads. You take her through Corona, where you grew up. You take her past Meadow Brook, the housing project where you and your mom lived for the first sixteen years of your life. Past the parks you played in. Past the deli you worked in after school. You don't point out, specifically, what these places are. But, you she knows. You'd told her names, when you were slowly unravelling your past. And you think, even if you hadn't, she'd be able to tell by the way you slow down a little and look out the window, not nostalgic, but, just, reflective, like you are whenever you drive through here. You make it, finally, to the quiet street in East Flushing where your mom rents a little one-bedroom on the first floor of a private house. It's different from where you grew up, for sure. It's a safer neighborhood, and you think, you sleep better at night, knowing she's alone in a place like this, where her landlady has your number and she can walk home from the bus without worry if she works late. Brittany takes it in as you find parking, and your butterflies, they're getting restless. They know you're five minutes away from one of your big life moments. They know, they know, this is a huge deal for you.

You have to walk a bit, and you insist on taking Brittany's bag while she grabs Otis and his things— something that earns you a sweet kiss. She looks around some more as your clasped hands swing between you, and you watch her, you watch her, and you just feel full, really. It's the only way to describe it. It's why you tell her your special things, it's why she learns what no one else has ever known before. Because she cares, she cares so much, and she makes it hers, too. You love that, you love that, maybe more than anything, this sharing of your lives, this partnership that's growing, growing, every single day. You reach the red door that's grown familiar to you in the nearly ten years that your mom has lived here, the ten years you've been gone, and you turn to Brittany, letting her know, without words, that you're here.

"Okay." She sucks in a deep breath and then looks down to Otis. "Okay, buddy, let's meet Santana's mom."

Rather than turn the keys in the lock like you normally would, you knock on the door. It feels right. You don't know why, but, it feels right to knock and have her open the door. Your mom, she won't care, she still calls this place  _home_ for you, even though you never lived here, and walking in with Brittany would be totally normal. But, you're sure Brittany will be more comfortable with being introduced on the doorstep, with being invited inside. It's the little things. Those little quirks you both have, that you both start to pick up on, that makes things easier. You keep her hand tightly in yours, fingers interlocked, while you wait for your mother to come and get you.

"Baby girl." She opens the door, all dressed up and wearing the perfume she gets from the guy on Canal Street, the kind she used to wear to interviews when you were a kid, you notice. Making an impression. You love your mom. You love her so much. You love her even more for this, because meeting your girlfriend, she feels like it's an occasion worthy of dressing up for.

"Mama." You grin. The butterflies, they must be multiplying. You think they might lift you right off the ground, what with the way your mother is smiling. Smiling at you. Smiling at Brittany. Even smiling at Otis. "Mama, this is Brittany."

"Brittany. It's so nice to meet you." She speaks a little slower than her normal rapid-fire pace, but, not in an obnoxious way, not in a patronizing way. You just want to hug her, really. "Santana has told me so much about you."

"She's told me a lot about you too, Ms. Lopez." Brittany's cheeks are bright red. She embarrasses easily, but she's smiling, and you think, she's not searching for her shell. She's just getting used to this. "Thank you for having me."

"Oh, honey, no Ms. Lopez, please. Call me Maribel. And anyone who makes my girl happy is always, always invited here." She opens her arms a little, not forcing a hug from her, but, inviting her, if she wants. Brittany complies, a little awkwardly, but, she hugs your mother, and it's just, you can't believe how much that means to you. When they pull apart, your mother looks down at Otis, and extends her hand so he can smell it. "I've heard a lot about you too, sir."

"Ms.—Maribel. You're sure it's okay for him to be here, right, I don't want. I don't want to impose on you—" Brittany stutters over her words a little, and you find her hand again, rubbing your thumb on the pulse point of her wrist.

"Don't be silly, of course he's welcome. Come on inside, you must be hungry from the ride. Let me make you lunch."

You tease your mom, a little, about forgetting about you, and she rolls her eyes, before kissing both of your cheeks and pulling you in for a tight hug. She murmurs in your ear that she thinks Brittany's a sweetheart. You can't help the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You know it's true. But hearing your mom say it. Everyone seeks their mother's approval, in some way. And yours, it's always been easy to get, she's always been so proud of you. But still. She likes Brittany already, and she's barely even spoken to her. Once she gets to know her more, you're pretty sure she actually might replace you in favor of your amazing girlfriend.

"Santana, look at you." Brittany points to the faded picture of you that your mom has always kept hung on the wall, no matter where you lived. She doesn't have a ton of photos of you, but in this one, you're maybe two, and you're grinning with all the teeth you have. Brittany, she pokes one of your cheeks, and she laughs. "You still have those cute chipmunk cheeks. And those big baby dimples."

"And this is why I still have to show ID everywhere we go." You laugh in return, watching those universe eyes of her dance as they look at little you. Between that one, and one of you asleep on your mom's chest in the hospital. The picture a nurse took for her. You and your mom, it's always been just the two of you. And that's why this is bigger than Brittany knows, being here with you. That's what you're trying to make her understand. That's why the world doesn't matter to you, because it never has before. Not to you, not to your mom. Together, you both built all you have, and the world did you no favors.

"You still sleep like this." She notices the way your tiny hand is beneath your head, completely passed out.

"Like the dead." Your mom comes back in, a tray of bologna sandwiches in hand. She still makes them for you when you come home, it's the only time you eat them. And Brittany, she tells you it's cute. Brittany, she tells your mom she'd be glad to have one too, if she doesn't mind. You fall a little more in love, from that. And you wonder, you wonder if this is a bottomless pit. You wonder if there's any limit to just how deep you can fall. "Are you girls ready to eat now?"

"Yeah, totally," you start to say, but then Brittany shakes her head.

"I. Um. I just. I wanted to bring you a gift, to thank you. And, I wasn't sure what kind of things you liked, really." She slips her hand from yours, and you watch her, you watch her with awe as she goes over to her bag and unzips it. She pulls out a rolled paper, and you just, you grab the back of the couch to balance yourself. Because sometimes, sometimes she's just too much. "Santana, she tells me stories about the beach. How after you'd finished working, the man at the store would give her a Popsicle, and you'd go play together at the beach until it was time to take the ferry back. And. If you don't like it, it's okay, I won't be offended at all. But, I painted this for you, because I couldn't think of anything else to bring you."

"Brittany." Your mom takes the roll from her hands, and she looks at you. She looks at you, and your jaw is kind of dropped, you think. She looks at you, and she has that same look of amazement on her face that you're sure you do. She looks at you as she unrolls the painting, and then, you both look down. You gasp, when you see it. Brittany's watercolors, they're always abstract, and this one is no different. But, there's no doubt what this painting is. It's you. It's little you, red Popsicle stained hands. Little you, in the sand, the big wide ocean behind you, and you have to bring your hand up to wipe the tears that are about to fall. Because Brittany, she painted this for your mom. Brittany, she heard one of your most special things, and she put it to paper. For your mom, who  _gave_  you those things, when you both had very little else.

"Britt." Your voice cracks, and you look at your mom. She's crying. Not even trying to hide it. And there are very, very few times you ever remember her doing that. Very few times you've ever seen her open herself up. And then, then what she does, it's just too much. She brings her hand to her chin, and then down again towards Brittany. She thanks her. In sign language. Your mother, who didn't teach you to speak Spanish when you were growing up, because she was afraid people would hear her accent in you and pass you over for opportunities. She's learned at least one word. For Brittany, because she knows how much that matters to you.

"You're welcome." Brittany manages, though you know she has to be having a hard time keeping herself together. "I hope. I hope that you like it."

"Brittany. In all the summers Santana and I spent over there, I don't think I have any pictures of her on the beach. I went there to work, to clean for the people on vacation, so it wasn't a vacation for us. But still, it was the best part of our year. So thank you for this, this means more to me than you know."

"Britt." You say it again. Because she didn't know, she couldn't have known, but, how happy she made your mom is probably the greatest thing any person has ever done for you. You, just, you look at her, you hope she can see it, what she's done, just by being her. You open your arms and step toward her. She looks a little at your mom, blushy, unsure, and she laughs, nudging her toward you. You take her in your arms, and you hold her so tightly, trying to make her feel your gratitude. When you pull back, you look at her, and you're still a little teary eyed. "It's a really beautiful painting."

"Well, I had a beautiful subject, even if little you was mostly in my imagination."

"You certainly got it." Your mom barely tears her eyes away from her gift. "Right down to the messy hands."

"I figured, she still eats ice pops like that."

"No I don't." You protest, and she raises an eyebrow at you, and looks at your mom, who nods. "Oh, I see how it is, totally outnumbered. That's fine, I'll just come over here and hang out with my friend Otis."

The rest of the day, it goes like that. Your mom, she tells Brittany stories about you, she asks her questions about her art, her life. She shows her the signs she learned. Just a few, but, you see the way Brittany's eyes sparkle with each one. This, this is your mom fully accepting the woman you love into your family. You know she would be welcoming, but this is more than just welcoming, this is so much more. You're overwhelmed by it, really, and after you insist on taking the two of them out to dinner, because it's one of the few things your mom lets you do for her, she tells you she's heading to bed for the night. She's kisses both of your cheeks again. She tells you in your ear she adores Brittany. Then she hugs her, and she signs goodnight. She leaves you in the living room, just you, Brittany and Otis, and you see it, you see that Brittany, she's just as overwhelmed as you. Probably even more.

"Hi." She nuzzles her nose against yours as you're pulling out the couch, and she settles her hands on your hips.

"Hey." You kiss her, and you kiss her again. You draw it out. Because you haven't really kissed her all day, and you miss the feeling of her lips on yours. "How are you doing?"

"Good. I'm really good." Brittany takes one end of the sheet, and she helps you spread it over the mattress. She's calm. She's happy. Otis has found his own little corner of the room. And it's just the two of you, really. When she's open and honest. When she'll tell you if today was too much. "I really like your mom. She's not. She's not what I expected at all."

"You didn't expect to like her?"

"No. No it's not that." She shakes her head quickly, and she wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes a little. She does that when she gathers her thoughts sometimes, and you don't rush her. "I just— you've told me these stories about her, and, I didn't expect her to be so sweet and gentle."

"What, because of the elbow story?" You ask her, reminded that you'd told her that she'd once broken a guy's nose with her elbow for checking out your newly developed body on the bus. You were eleven. You were her baby. You think he's probably lucky he got away with  _just_ a broken nose.

"Not, not just that. I mean. She raised you all alone, and, I see you when you get feisty and mad. I guess I just figured maybe she'd want to protect you from me or something."

"Hey, Britt, come sit with me." You take her hands, and you sit with your legs tucked beneath you on the pullout. She sits across from you, and you look at her. She knows a lot, but there's so much you still have to tell. So much that you still, you just, you've been waiting for the right time. Because you don't want pity. You and your mom, you never have, and Brittany, she has that in common with you. "You saw where I lived, right? When we were driving?" You ask her, and she nods, slowly. "That's nice compared to what it was twenty years ago. Ten years ago, even. When I was in college, I remember people used to talk about their families being  _poor._ I went to an Ivy League school. When they said poor, almost all of them, they meant upper middle class. My mother, she had me, and she was just a kid herself. She had no help,  _no one._ Not a single friend in this whole city that stood by her. My, sperm donor, whatever, shithead guy that knocked her up and left her, I don't even know his name, because I don't  _want_ to. My mom was my mother, my father, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my everything. That was it. Her and I. Until I was twelve, she couldn't get hired for a full time job, because she wouldn't leave me alone, even for a few hours after school. She'd heard so many horrible stories, and she didn't want me to get hurt. And no one wanted a kid hanging around while she was trying to do a job, so she worked mostly odd jobs, one day at a time. We weren't poor like, can't afford new sneakers poor. We lived on food stamps, and church charity, and whatever part time jobs she could get. We had nothing. Britt, that picture of me you painted for her, it was seriously the best thing you could have given to her. She didn't have a camera when I was a kid. Most of the pictures she really has of me are, like, the samples of the ones they would take in school that the teachers would slip home in an envelope for her, even though they were supposed to get thrown out."

"I, I didn't know that. I just, wanted to paint something for her."

"I know." You swallow back your tears. For more than two decades, you didn't talk about this. And now. Now you're here, with Brittany. Filling in her blanks. "And that makes it even better. Because you did it just because you're  _you._ Not because you were trying to, I don't know, like, feel bad for us or something. I got made fun of all the time in school. I was scrawny and my clothes didn't fit. I got free lunch. I had the same backpack for all of elementary school and most of high school. I used to sit in the library after school, because they had a program, and then my mom could work if she could find something. I'd read all these books, and I'd learn all I could, because my mom, she told me that was the most important thing. That I learn, that I go to college, that I have this piece of paper that told people they should hire me. Because she didn't even graduate high school, and she wanted so much more for me."

"It's stupid." She shakes her head and you just, pull your lips into your mouth, because you understand what she's trying to say.

"I know. And I know it's not like that for everyone, but, my mom, I guess, had some shitty luck or something. She taught me though, that I needed to be as big as I could be. That I needed to close my ears to anything and everything anyone said about me, and I needed to do better than all the bad words. So I did. I kept my head in a book, and I studied, because I wanted to get a better life for us both. I just, I've spent my life with people talking behind my back, and I don't talk about it now, because I don't want to even give them the power of my memories, I don't  _care_ what they said, or anything. It doesn't get in my head, because they're wrong. I didn't sleep with my History teacher my senior year to get him to pay my application fees for college. I worked in the deli for twelve hours a day every weekend, and studied for my SATs when there were no customers. My mom's not a slut because she got pregnant at sixteen. She's brave and she's strong, because she raised me alone. And you, you're not stupid or worthless, just because you can't hear the inanity of people around you, or because your brain works a little slower than other people's. You're a gifted artist, and you just, you prove that you don't have to conform to what other people think is normal to be special."

"Santana." She touches your face, and her eyes, her universe eyes, they sparkle.

"My mom, she doesn't see you as a threat, because she sees you as one of us. We're fighters, and she knows you're one too. She's sweet and gentle with you, because she knows kindness is hard to find in the world, and she alway taught me, raise your hackles when you feel like you're threatened, but let them down when the threat is gone. You've lowered them, for both of us, I think. And after twenty-seven years of my life, you, Brittany Pierce, are the first person my mom has accepted without question into this family."

"Really?"

"Really, really. I wanted you to come here, to see this, because, it's who I am. It's what no one who listens to my radio show knows about me. It's what Marcus and Patty and even Charlie don't know. It's what makes me who I am, and, I thought, I don't know…"

"That if I understood you more, I'd stop hiding in my turtle shell." She finishes your sentence, and you just, shrug a little. "I love that you shared this with me, because I love you, and want to know your everything. But, just so you know, Santana, it's getting a little easier, even without this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I feel like I know your heart. And, I. I know it more every day. That makes it feel, like, I don't know. Faith and trust just, they're starting to come naturally." She taps her pointer to her head, and then brings it down in a closed fist on top of her other. Faith and trust, they're the same sign, and you take a deep breath.

"Good." You smile. Its a big, wide smile, and you lean over to kiss her. "That's really, really good."

"And Santana?" She looks at you, she looks into you, like she does sometimes, and she presses her finger into your dimple. "I think, that you're just, you're amazing. I've always thought it, but, seeing this, having you tell me these things. You're even more. And I am so, so proud of you, for all the things you did, long before I ever knew you."


	11. Of People and Things That Went Before

**Brittany**

Settled. So settled. You didn't think it was possible. But. Your life, it's just fallen into a rhythm again. You didn't think it was possible. But. Santana. She's just come to fit so naturally into your places, and you've fit so easily into hers, that it doesn't feel so off balance. Not anymore. Your heart, it still flutters though. That hasn't gone away once you started feeling comfortable. It flutters when you catch her eye across the kitchen. When she comes back after work and you realize she'd worn one of your sweaters. When you're getting out of the shower and notice the broken blood vessels on your neck— always under your ear, always— that she'd left the night before. When you're sitting with your coffee, reading her show, and she says hi to Otis, because she knows he loves hearing her voice over the radio. When she smiles. When she— anything. Really. It doesn't take much. But. The fluttering. It's not unsettling anymore. It doesn't feel like everything is out of your control. Not anymore. Not after she took you home, to her home. To her family. Not after she helped you understand her better. Not after you realized. You and her. You're different. But not all that much.

It's getting colder. You used to hate that. But. It's different now. You go to Brandywine and they let you help stomp the grapes. Santana takes pictures of you on her phone. Leggings rolled to your knees, standing in a bucket, crushing them beneath your feet. You buy two bottles of wine there— not the wine you made though, it's not ready yet— and you get drunk on it and fall asleep on the floor of her apartment, your head finding her stomach as a pillow. Otis thinks you're crazy, maybe. But. It's a good crazy. You go pumpkin picking. You forget that you hate Halloween. You forget it was the worst day of your life. You  _almost_  forget about Wonder Woman and swimming pools. You forget things. Because it's easy with her. It's easy when she carves a terrible Jack-o-Lantern and puts him outside. It's easy when Mr. Shapiro turns up his nose at it, and she challenges him to make a better one. It's easy when you stay in that night and watch  _Frosty the Snowman._ She doesn't like Halloween movies, she tells you. You're not sure if that's always been true. But. You think it is now. You think it's true when she spends the night running her fingers through your hair. When you see her crinkly smile when he says  _happy birthday._ When she tells you it really should be an all year movie, not just for Christmas.

You set back the clocks. She loves that, she tells you. She's probably the only person in all the world who does. But it's lighter in the mornings. She likes that. Watching the Philadelphia sunrise while she drinks the coffee you pack for her in the studio. It's cozier at night. She likes that, too. Bringing the comforter from your bed out to the living room and tucking underneath it. Settled. It all feels so wonderfully settled. This routine. Waking up with her nearly every morning. Making coffee. You knew you'd wanted to make her coffee not long after you'd met her. But. The actual practice of it. It's so much better than you expected. Santana. She's good at caring for herself. But she likes to be taken care of, a lot. A lot, a lot. She likes forehead kisses. She likes love notes in her purse. She likes when you surprise her and make her favorite dinner. And you like it too. A lot, a lot. You like it because of crinkly-eyed smiles. You like it because her kisses. You like it. You like it most of all, because she believes you're  _capable_ of it. That's not something you're used to. Not at all.

She's been working a lot. More than usual. She tells you about her charity. Every year, her station does a big online auction. She'd started it. She wants to give back, it's important to her. And the holidays, she knows it's when people are more generous. She knows people open their wallets, because they think it's what they're supposed to do. And she takes advantage of that. She raises enough money for happy holidays. She raises enough money for happy  _years_. She raises enough money, and she has a big early Christmas dinner for as many impoverished families as she can. A dinner, with gifts and laughter and promises. It's her very favorite night of the whole year, she tells you. You swoon over that. You swoon, because your girl? She's something special. Something wonderful. And. You just. You don't even have words. You think of kids like her. You think of her smile lighting up a room. You think of how much good she does, because she knows what it's like. And. You're proud of her. You're unbelievably proud of her. And you tell Otis as much, about a dozen times a day.

So while she works extra hours getting things together, you paint. You paint a lot. You bring her lunch at the station. She kisses you in the conference room where she sits on the phone with donors. She tells you she loves you, over and over, when she tells you if you want, she'd really like one of your paintings for her auction. You forget sometimes that you're published in books. You forget that kids see your pictures in the library. You forget that maybe people might actually buy your original stuff. But she doesn't forget. Santana, she gushes, and she thanks you, she thanks you so many times when you say yes. Of course you say yes, because you want to help kids like her, too. You want to do all you can, you tell her. Anything she needs. And her crinkly smile? It makes helping feel even better.

Even with all that's going on around you, though, no matter what, Sundays are for the two of you. You stay in bed late, covers trapping the warmth around you. You tickle her back while she nuzzles into you. She kisses your collarbone. Your eyelids. Your chin. You press her on her back, and you make love to her, slow, soft, aching. Because Sunday morning love making is one of your favorite things. It fills you up. Physically, emotionally. It's somehow more intimate than the rest of the week. It's perfect. The two of you, in morning light. The two of you, showing each other a special kind of love. You love making her tremble. You love feeling the effect you have on her. You love the way she tightens around your fingers and tangles her hands in your hair. You used to need to touch her throat to feel her moan and whimper. And you still do sometimes, just because. But now, you don't  _need_ it to know. Now you know her body, and you feel her noises in her burning skin. You see her noises in her closed eyes and parted lips. You watch them in her fire eyes as she looks up at you from between your legs. You taste them on her tongue when you pull her back up your body and you kiss her, cupping her cheek. Just. Savoring those lazy love drunk kisses. They're under your skin. In your bones. They fill you up. They've become a part of you.

You always shower together on Sundays. You love the way she kisses you in the spray. The way she washes your hair, fingers sliding through slippery strands. You love her gentleness and her care. You love watching her dress afterwards, rubbing lotion on her body, watching you, watching you as she steals your sweaters and socks. Your clothes. There's something about seeing her in your clothes. She loves to wear them, she says, because they smell like you, and she feels like she's wrapped in your arms. You love her in them, because. Because it feels like more belonging. It feels like she's yours. And. In too big sweaters and your silly socks, she manages to look both sexy and adorable. All at once. She's yours. You're hers. And you love Sundays. You love Sundays so much.

Every week, she picks a new place for brunch. Except maybe it's more like linner. Because after slow sweet morning sex and long showers. After drinking coffee and sharing the newspaper. It's usually long after noon. But. What you call it doesn't matter. It's you and her. And Otis, beneath your feet. It's sharing eggs and pancakes and berries. It's Mimosas and Bellinis and Bloody Marys. It's Santana. Holding your hand through all of it, sometimes. Or, other times. Where she doesn't hold your hand at all. Where she sees how long she can go without speaking a word. Where she speaks in only Sign. Sign that she's becoming increasingly fluent in. Sign. The Sign she's learned for you. Because she loves you. On those Sundays, you kiss her more than normal. You lean over the table and press your lips to hers. Tasting syrup, or hollandaise, or blackberry jam. Today's one of those Sundays. And you've gone seventeen minutes without a single spoken word. You've gone seventeen minutes, when Otis shuffles beneath the table and Santana's eyes widen at exactly the same time.

_Your mom._ Santana tells you, her first spoken words in seventeen minutes. Words she knows in sign. But. You think she probably forgot them. Because you would, too. Your mom. She makes you forget your own name sometimes— and not in the good way. Not in the way Santana makes you forget it.  _And your sister._

Santana. She's never met Jessica. She's seen her in pictures. But. You haven't even seen her since you started dating Santana. You haven't even seen your mom, since that day in your apartment. That's not rare. You rarely see them. You know Sundays are their day too. You know your mom comes into the city and takes Jessica shopping, and out to eat. You know they don't invite you. But. Really, you don't want to be invited. They talk too fast. They don't look at you. You get confused. And they hate repeating themselves. You're glad Sunday is your day with Santana. Because maybe you used to want to be invited. Maybe you used to want them to include you. Just so you could feel like you were a part of something. But now. Now you're glad that you're a part of  _Santana_. Who looks at you. Whose lips you read with ease. Who signed to you for seventeen minutes without saying a word. Santana who tries. Santana who is perfect, because she does.

_Brittany._ Your mom steps around the table, because you don't turn your head.  _And, Samantha, was it?_

_Santana._ She corrects her, but never stops looking at you.  _It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Pierce._

_Jessie. I guess I'll introduce you, since Brittany hasn't. This is Santana. Brittany's friend._

"Girlfriend, actually." You finally speak. You're sure you're mumbling. Your mom hates that. You're surprised she doesn't tell you to speak up.

— _don't have to call me Mrs. Pierce._

— _ana on the radio?_ Jessica asks her, talking at the same time as your mom. She flips her hair and seems entirely uninterested in you. That's not a surprise.

_That is my actual name. Santana on the radio._ The joke falls flat with your mother. But Jessie. She laughs and laughs. You know it's fake. She closes her eyes and throws back her head. You love Santana, but the joke wasn't that funny. She probably didn't even mean for it to be.  _Nice to meet you, Jessica._

_You can totally call me Jessie._ She's not flirting, really, you don't think. She's just. Weird. You think she's doing it to get a rise out of you. But it doesn't. Faith and trust. And Santana. She reaches across the table to take your hand. While your other one. It grips Otis' collar. Not because you think he would hurt anyone. But. Because you like to feel like close to him sometimes, especially around them.

"Did you have the boysenberry pancakes?" You ask them. There aren't even boysenberry pancakes on the menu, you don't think. It's the first thing that pops into your head though. They make you so nervous. And you blush. You blush a lot when they both give you that look they like to give. Santana though. She rubs her thumb on the inside of your wrist. She's drawing love hearts with it. Those love hearts. They're your favorite.

_They were probably already out, Sweetheart._ She smiles at you. Her fire eyes, they always show how much she loves you. Her fire eyes, they glare at your mom and Jessie. But they don't notice. Because she keeps her smile painted on. Not her crinkly smile. Her fake one. For people she can't really be bothered with. She's trying to be nice, but— she loves you too much, you think.  _Too bad though, you should try them next time. They were excellent._

_Right_. Jessie laughs again. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Santana. She's taught you that you don't have to take other people's bullshit. That you're better than that.  _So you're like, dating Brittany?_

_Almost five months now._ She answers when you don't. She draws more love hearts. You squeeze her hand tighter.

_Why?_

_Why am I dating her? That's a weird question, Jessica._

_I—um._ You watch her. She stammers. No one ever makes Jessie do that. You're the stammerer. The stutterer. The mumbler. You're impressed, really, by Santana. But when aren't you?  _I meant like, how—how'd you meet?_

_I was lucky. The best thing that ever happened to me quite literally fell into my lap._

"Accurate." You laugh. You wonder if it sounds fake. Probably. But. They probably don't notice anyway. You're okay with it. This doesn't feel— it doesn't feel like it usually does. Because Santana. She's here, and she's looking at you, and just, putting Jessie in her place.

_Well, that does sound like something—_

— _to Thanksgiving?_ You flick your eyes over to your mom, who's apparently begun speaking.

"Sorry, mom, what?"

_Thanksgiving. You're coming to Thanksgiving, right?_ She rolls her eyes. She hates repeating herself. She really does. More than anything. You don't think you'll ever understand why it's such a big deal to her. But it is. It's her thing. You guess. You don't know.

"I—You, you didn't invite me, Mom."

_Now Britty, don't be ridiculous and melodramatic. I shouldn't have to invite you. You're always welcome, we're your family._ Your mom. She looks at Santana when she says it. It's. It's not genuine. Disingenuous? You try to remember the actual word. But, it doesn't really matter. You know she couldn't care less if you came or not. But. She's putting on some kind of show, maybe? Most of the things she does have always been for appearances. It's why, maybe, you stopped fitting in as part of her world. You're not the picture perfect daughter. You're not Jessie. But. You think, you think. You don't want to be Jessie. You don't want to be your mother. For the first time, really, you  _like_ being you. Because you, you're the girl Santana fell in love with. You, you're the girl she looks at like she's everything.

"I. Well. Santana's mom is coming down. And, I was going to have dinner with them this year."

_Well then. I just wish you would have told me beforehand. I just expected you, as always._

"I know." You lower your head a little, but keep your eyes up. She doesn't want you. You know she doesn't. But. It doesn't mean she won't make you feel guilty for not coming anyway. "I'm sorry, I didn't. I just, I—"

_Speak up, Brittany, you're mumbling again._

"I'm sorry, mom. I made other plans." Loud and clear, your words. Loud and clear, your message. More than anything, loud and clear, your own feelings.

They don't stick around long. Not after that. Your mother feels slighted. You don't— You'll never. Not in a million years, understand that. It just. Doesn't serve a purpose. Wasted words. For you, you choose the things you say carefully. And saying things you don't mean, it seems so unnecessary. But. That's her. She's been that way for twenty-two years. Maybe longer. You don't know. You don't remember, really, before that. You remember, a little, that she treated you more like she treats Jessie. It's been so long though, you don't remember what it feels like. And it's okay. It's okay, it's okay. You'd stopped seeking her approval a long time ago. And now that you have Santana, now that you feel real, genuine love again. It's even easier.

You're ready to leave after that. You're ready to just, take a walk on the brisk November afternoon. You're ready for just you and Santana again. The restaurant has gotten crowded, and, it feels sort of stifling. You like the fresh air. You like being outside. And now, this year, you like the contrast of Santana's warm fingers slipping through yours. So you go. And you walk, you walk a long time. She knows when you want that. She knows that walking, it clears your head. Walking. It's hard for you to have a conversation. So, it let's you have your space, without her having to leave your side to give you. It's perfect, really. A happy medium. A compromise. Those big important things that you're learning more and more about as your relationship progresses.

When you reach Festival Pier, you've had enough of your space. Otis, he sits down beside you. He looks out across the water, and you turn so yours standing in front of Santana. She looks so earnest. She always does. Those fire eyes, they're so expressive, they tell you all you ever need to know. You love those eyes. You love  _her._ You feel it most, you think, where you used to feel emptiness. She fills you. She fills those cracks and crevices. She just, seeps in and makes you whole. And your heart pounds, feeling it, feeling it, letting her love, her care, her everything, seep deeper, deeper in. You pull her to you then. You grab hold of her scarf and you pull her close to you. Kissing her, kissing her. Her arms wind around your neck, and she rises up on her tiptoes. She wants to feel you too. You think, you think, just like you need to feel her to remind yourself that you're just fine, she needs that too. And she always kisses you deeper then, when she thinks you might feel uncertain. She always loves you harder, when she's afraid you might forget how much she does.

_Britt, if you want to go over there on Thanksgiving, it's okay._ Once you pull back a little, she looks deep into you. You can tell she doesn't really want you to. She's been so excited about spending your first holidays together. You've both been. But. She wants to make sure. Because she's her. And she's just, something.  _My mom and I can cook, and then you can come over for dessert, or, late night dinner again. Or, Friday extra Thanksgiving dinner, or—_

"Hey." You cut her off with your mouth. You slip your hands up under her jacket. You make her yelp, just a little, when you playfully trail your cold hands on her skin. "I don't. Want to, I mean. I'm not. I— I just. I want to be with you. And your mom. I don't want to go there, where my mom, she invites everyone and it's chaotic and I end up eating with Otis in the kitchen, because trying to follow all the talking makes me dizzy. And she doesn't let him in the dining room because she thinks it's gross. Every year I wish I stayed home. But, you're supposed to spend Thanksgiving with your family."

_Yeah_. Her face. It falls a little. She widens her eyes. Big. So big. She does that, when she's trying to look happy, but she's really not. You know her faces so well. You study them, when she's awake. When she's asleep. It helps you learn the meaning of her every word. And her big eyes, they're heartbreak eyes, the fire, smoldering. They don't fool you.  _Yeah, you are._

"Santana. This year, you're my family, too. It's still new, but, family, it's people who accept you, who love you no matter what, right?" You watch her eyes. You watch as she stops trying to make them so big. You watch as they start to sparkle. You watch as they turn to really, truly happy, instead of pretend. Because she understands what you're saying. "You, you accepted me. And you love me. You, and your mom, too. My family, my mom, my dad, my sister, all those aunts and uncles and cousins, they're my family, and they're always a part of me. But, this year, I want to spend my Thanksgiving with you. We talked about it, and we decided it. My mom, she doesn't change that. Not at all."

_Are you sure, because—_

"Are you trying to un-invite me to the dinner I'm supposed to be cooking?" You tease her a little. You take your hand out of her coat, and you poke her cheek. You want those dimples to appear. Because you mean this. All of this. "Because last I checked, you don't even have a roasting pan in your kitchen. And I'm supposed to teach you how to make pie."

_That's true, you are. This could be pretty disastrous without you, actually. But, if you want to go to your mom's, I could seriously buy a pie, and borrow your roasting pan. Mama knows how to make a turkey._

"You'd invite your mother and make her cook for you? Santana Lopez, you'll do no such thing." She laughs. She laughs genuinely when you pretend to scold her. And the dimples, they appear again. Her eyes, they crinkle. "This is where I want to be. Trust me. I don't need to find my place there, because you've made a place for me in your family too."

_Well, I'm really glad about that, about you not changing your mind. About our first Thanksgiving. I was kind of really sad thinking about not spending it with you._

"Honey, you're not very good at hiding it. At all."

_You know me too well for my own good._

"No, I think I know you just well enough."


	12. Lend Me Your Ears and I'll Sing You a Song

**Santana**

Every year, from mid-October right up until Christmas, you're entirely stressed. The fundraising, the holiday party planning, the shopping, all of it, on top of your regular work schedule, it's enough to make you tear your hair out. Except, stressful as it is, it's your favorite thing in the world. Stressful as it is, being able to help these families, kids like you, parents like your mom, people who just can't catch a break, makes you your happiest self. And this year, with Brittany, insisting upon helping you with anything you'd like her to, with Brittany, who reminds you to eat and cuddles you after long days, somehow the holiday season is even brighter.

Thanksgiving comes and goes, quicker than you'd expected. The two of you, you do all the prep the day before, and true to her word, Brittany teaches you to bake pumpkin pie— something she'd learned watching TV, she confesses. But the day of, that's your favorite. You go together to pick up your mom at 30th Street Station, and when you get back to your apartment, your mother entirely ignores Brittany's insistence that she has dinner under control. So the two of them, they end up cooking together. Your mom and your girlfriend, they cook Thanksgiving dinner, and you watch, awed at how effortlessly they move. Like they've been doing it forever. Like they're going to be doing it for the  _rest of forever._ The butterflies, they can barely handle that. You swear, they're just constantly riled up, there's no stopping them.

It's nose to the grindstone, once the holiday weekend is over, once you send your mom back to New York with promises that you'll be back up at Christmastime— though the logistics of which, you've yet you work out. But you will. You'll figure it all out. Because that's what you and Brittany do. Something easier than you've ever expected. And after your weekend, you're back at work. You're urging your callers to donate money for the needy families of Philadelphia. You're still saying hello to Otis every morning, you're still drinking Brittany's coffee while the sun rises over your city, and slipping casual mentions of her into your show. You're busy, so busy, but not too busy for them. Never too busy for them.

A week before the Christmas party, you have to start shopping. It's your favorite part of it. Getting to play Santa, though you want no credit for it. You love reading the simple lists of small kids, kids like you. You love filling shopping carts with new clothes, clothes that no one else will have worn before them. You love slipping things in for the moms, for the dads, for the older siblings who have stepped in to help care for their families. You think of your mom, you always think of your mom while you shop. You think of how the smallest kindness made her day, her month, even. And you think of the smiles you get from the people who'd only expected some new socks for their little ones, but ended up with so much more. Brittany, she helps you shop this year. You'd never expected to include another person in this thing that's so deeply personal for you. But with Brittany, you want to include her in everything. With Brittany, she shares your joy, grinning as she fills shopping carts with baby dolls, with crayons and pencils, with clothing and canned food. Brittany, she wasn't there for the first twenty-seven years of your life, but she understands that they made you  _you,_ she understands what doing this every year means.

You wrap, for an entire weekend, you wrap gifts. Your apartment, it looks like Santa's Workshop. Gifts, boxed and stacked and labeled fill your living room. More boxes, filled with all of the food, cover your counter and table. You and Brittany eat Thai food out of takeout containers on the floor. Otis investigates, he's not really sure how he feels about spending time in this strange place. But Brittany, she smiles so much. She kisses you more than ever. She tells you how amazing this is, how thankful she is that you let her help. She helps you check your lists. Her organization is really helpful in this. You feel like you're doing a more thorough job than ever. And you smile, too. You're overwhelmed by it, really. You're overwhelmed by Brittany's love and kindness. You're overwhelmed that you've fallen in love with someone so goodhearted, you're overwhelmed because this time of year is overwhelming enough for you, but with Brittany, everything just multiplies, amplifies, spills over.

The morning of the party, the Thursday before Christmas, you and Brittany decorate the big Christmas tree in the station's multipurpose room. You wrap her in garland and pull her toward you. You kiss her. You kiss her until she's breathless. You kiss her until you see the stars in her universe eyes. You kiss her, because this girl, you have no words for her. You haven't even decorated the tree in her apartment yet, but here she is, still working at your side. She understands that  _this_ is what Christmas is for you, and she accepts it without question. It's things like this which make you think of the future. When she's in your arms. When Otis is lying on his belly on the floor close by. It makes you feel this certainty that has never existed for you before. The future, you think of it all the time. It surprises you how much you do. You've only been together half a year, but you have no doubts. Brittany. She's going to be your forever. Brittany, she'll be doing this by your side for years to come. As your girlfriend, maybe some day, as your  _wife._ This is just the first of many Christmases. This is just the start of the gorgeous life you're going to have together.

She looks beautiful in her red sweater and jeans. She always looks beautiful, but, watching her as she finishes getting ready for your favorite night of the year, she's somehow even more stunning. You don't know how she manages it, but she does. She manages to awe you. She manages to wake the butterflies. She manages to make you want to kiss her over and over again, just by being her.

"Hi, beautiful." She turns from the mirror toward you, and you, you just melt a little. You know she caught you staring, but she doesn't tease. Not tonight. She just returns the compliment, making a small sigh escape your lips. "Am I taking too long?"

"No, no. Not at all." You shake your head. "I just— thank you for this, Brittany. For helping me."

"You've thanked me a lot of times, Santana," she reminds you. Her eyes, they sparkle, the flecks of glitter in her sweater making them shine brighter. You reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. You need to touch her sometimes. It's like some sort of gravitational pull.

"I know. But I mean it, I really do. I haven't had much time left for just  _us,_ and it's our first Christmas together."

"You've had plenty of time for us. I'm not some girl you need to woo with wine and nice dinners, you know that. This, this. This, making other people have a merry Christmas, and you. Sharing this with me, the things you do with your big giant heart. That's a million times better. So thank you, for letting me participate."

"I absolutely adore you, Brittany Pierce. I hope you know that."

"I think maybe you told me once or twice." She raises her eyebrows, and you just, you lean in to kiss her, putting your hand on her lower back, pulling her close. Just taking a moment.

"Well I'll tell you again. I love you. I love you a lot."

"I love you a lot too, Santana.

She puts her hand on your knee while you drive back over to the station. You still have one more load of gifts in your car. The money you've raised this year, it's more than ever. You wonder if it's because you've become more popular, you wonder if people have become more generous. You wonder, but it doesn't really matter all that much why. All that really matters is that seventy-three families, they'll have a merry Christmas. Seventy-three families will get a little extra assistance throughout the year. Seventy-three families, they'll maybe believe a little more in miracles. Your mom, she made you believe in big things. She encouraged you to dream and hope, when it seemed like there was nothing to hope for. And it was that, those dreams, more than anything, that got you where you are. You want these other families to dream, too. You want those other little girls in too-big clothes to know that they matter too. You know it's overly optimistic, but you want them to know, somewhere in their hearts, that happy endings are real.

Lights twinkle all over the city, and the bells you'd put on Otis' collar jingle as he shifts a little in the backseat. It feels like Christmas, it feels like magic. It's in Brittany's universe eyes. It's everywhere, like that cheesy song in  _Love, Actually._ You feel it, this unmatched happiness, rushing through your veins. You hold Brittany's hand as you walk inside. You keep holding it while you talk to Jonas, since he always DJs the party for you. The volunteers, they begin to arrive, and Brittany, she's left her shell at home, mostly. She helps you greet them, she smiles, she even uses her voice a little, because she's growing less embarrassed of how she thinks she sounds. You love the way she talks, you tell her every day, just so she knows. She knows, and it helps her find confidence, because you assure her, you're an expert, they let you talk on the radio. She knows, and she believes a little more, even after the Marcus disaster, that there are people out there, people who appreciate her for the wonderful woman she is. No matter what.

You become frenzied. Completely frenzied, as your invited guests get closer to arriving. You've begun triple checking the lists that both you and Brittany have gone over. You're running around. You find yourself snapping at volunteers. It's just, this temporary beast you become, each and every year. It's Brittany, of course, who finds you. It's Brittany, who strokes your arms and kisses your head. It's Brittany who promises everything is perfect and reminds you that even if it's not, it's still the most wonderful thing she's ever seen. It's Brittany who calms you, and who hands you a buttered roll, because you haven't eaten, and she knows that makes you lose your mind a little. It's Brittany, whose hand you take, and who accepts your offer to come say hello to families as they come in. It's Brittany, who puts aside any of her last reservations, and stands strong at your side.

It's a success, really. The whole night. You take no credit for it. You never do. It's not about that for you. It's just about the squeals of delight, the smiles, the tears of parents, when their kids tell them  _see, Santa_ is  _real._ The whole night, you always try not to cry. Because you remember getting excited about something that most kids wouldn't blink an eye at. You feel Brittany's presence through the evening, even when she's not touching you. You feel her heart, knowing yours. You catch her smile, across the room, and you just, breathe deeply, filling, filling deeper with your love. This is her, on your most important day. This is her, with her radiance, helping you make this something incredible. This is her, doing that thing she does again. Where she makes magic without trying.

You lose her at some point, after dessert. She and Otis, you don't see them anywhere. But, you don't worry about her. There are nearly four hundred people in the room, she could be anywhere. Instead, you continue checking on your guests. You talk to families, and you listen to their stories. You listen to them, and you keep them with you. You remember the smiling faces. Some you'll see again next year, some you won't. But, each and every one of these people, they matter to you. They may not see what you, the face on the billboard has in common with them, but you know. And you hope, so much, that these little kids that run around the room, that laugh, that play with their new toys, you hope that they get chances too. You're lost, so lost in your head, when you stumble, quite literally, upon Brittany again, sitting on the floor across from a little boy, Otis between them, engaged in a conversation that steals the breath from your lungs.

"Santana." Otis perks up, and Brittany smiles when she sees you, then she spells your name out in sign, sign that the boy in front of her mimics, learning your uncommon name.  _My girlfriend._

_Girlfriend?_ He signs back to her, shrugging his shoulders in question.  _She's pretty. Good job._

_Thanks._ You touch your fingertips to your chin and bring them down. You look at Brittany, who is just, very clearly taken with this child, and blushing, because she does that, when someone compliments you. You beam at her, you beam at her like you don't think you ever have before.

"This is Carson." Brittany speaks out loud for you. She knows you're becoming increasingly fluent, but, you're definitely not at the point where you can follow a rapid conversation between two people who are, especially one that involves what seems to be more than a little finger spelling. "He's seven, and he's really enjoying his new Spider-Man sneakers." He signs something else, and both he and Brittany laugh, filling you, filling you again. "And the matching backpack."

"Carson's deaf, too." She tells you, signing along for him. You'd figured, but, you never know. You've never had the opportunity to see her act as a translator for you, and something about it, it makes your every cell feel warm. As if you weren't already warm enough, watching her carry on this enthusiastic conversation with this child, in a language all their own. "He used to wish for ears like his sister from Santa every year, so he could talk to more people, but how he's starting to think his are pretty special on their own."

_They are._ You tell him yourself, and you tug at Brittany's earlobe playfully.  _Like Britt's._

"He says not quite." Brittany shakes her head a little, laughing as Carson corrects that for you. "He was born deaf."

"Well then." You let out a little giggle, your cheeks rosy from the heat in the room, your eyes, brimming, brimming as he signs so animatedly, and she winks at him. "I'll leave you two to it. But, I'm going to steal you for a dance before the end of the night, alright?"

"Of course." She leans in to kiss your cheek, and then presses her lips to your ear. It doesn't matter that the room is loud, it doesn't matter that Carson can't hear her. She's really taken to talking in your ear, working on regulating the volume of her words to truly whisper. The intimacy, she loves. Being the only one who gets close enough to you to do that, she loves. You smile, you smile so she feels it against her cheek, and you reach for her hand to squeeze it. "Awesome, right?"

"Very." You nod, and you sneak a quick kiss. Sucking your teeth playfully when you hear Carson gag behind you. You turn back to him once more, and raise your eyebrows. You chuckle at his big, toothy grin, then you brush both hands over your chest. You form the right one into a  _C_ and cross it over.  _Merry Christmas._

You can't help but let your eyes return to them, over and over again. No matter where you are, you keep finding her. You find her coloring with him. You find her talking to his parents, her lips moving, and her hands going at the same time. You find her hugging them all goodbye, and you're pretty positive, of all the amazing things you've seen during your three Christmases doing this, and in all you'll see for as long as you'll continue, nothing will ever compare. Nothingwill ever compare to watching the woman you love light up around a small child. Nothingwill ever compare to watching the way she gives him the opportunity to communicate, when there are few other people in the room he would have been able to otherwise. Nothing, nothing,  _ever_ will compare to the way his mom cries happy tears as her husband carries two big boxes of new things for their children and she kisses Brittany's cheeks, thanking her, thanking her, for stopping to spend time with him. She gave them something too. Something you couldn't. Something that's so wonderfully special, that you have to catch your breath.

Brittany is still teary when she finds you again. The room is nearly empty, Jonas has already started returning the DJ equipment to the audio supply room. But it doesn't matter. None of that matters. You want to dance with your wonderful girl. You want to take her in her arms and sway with her. Just because you never have. Just because it's Christmastime. Just because there's garland and tinsel and mistletoe. Just because seventy-three families went home with a joy and happiness, one in particular. Just because you've spent two months putting this together, and now, now that it's over, your private Christmas with Brittany is just beginning. And mostly, mostly just because you love her so entirely, that you want to end your favorite night of the year, dancing with her.

"May I have this dance?" You ask her, dancing your right index and middle finger upon your flat left palm and gesturing between the two of you.

"You may." She smiles, and she steps toward you. It takes her a moment. She's not sure where to put her hands. You forget. You forget sometimes, that you might be the first one who's ever asked her to dance. And where you'd usually follow someone else's lead, you guide one hand to the back of your neck, and the other, you let it rest on your throat. She sucks in a breath, a deep one, because she knows, she knows, and you snake your arms around her waist, pulling her closer. "The music isn't playing anymore, is it?"

"It's not. But, Jonas already makes fun of me for my terrible taste in music, so it's probably much better that he's done for the night. Because the song I want to dance with you to, it'll just fuel his fire. I'm just—" You purse your lips and scrunch up your face a little. "I'm hoping you know the song. I mean, it's mega cheesy, and I didn't even see the movie until rainy day recess like two years after it came out. But, did you see  _Aladdin_?"

"I did." You think she knows. No, with the way her eyes shine, you're  _sure_ she knows. You'd thought about this, really, you'd thought about this long and hard, and maybe, maybe googled some love songs from the early nineties, since she always jokes about her super old school musical taste. And there were a few that worked, but, you saw that title, and, it just, resonated with you. Carpet or not, the two of you are opening each other up to brand new worlds. Carpet or not, you feel the magic.

" _I can show you the world, shining, shimmering splendid."_ You sing a little, as you start to sway. You sing a little, and she feels the vibrations, the expansion and contraction, the  _music_ right in your vocal cords. You sing, and she watches your lips, your eyes, your whole face. She's feeling the music in you, she's feeling it, and then, then, she pauses, just for a second. And even more than two decades after she'd last heard the song, she parts her lips, and she joins quietly, but so, so clearly, that you think the butterflies burst out of your own throat.

" _A whole new world. A dazzling place I never knew."_ She looks at you, she looks at you with those eyes, those eyes that are so much bigger that the world. Those universe eyes. And you just, you want to kiss her, but you want to keep hearing her beautiful, beautiful music. Music that sounds like nothing else you've ever heard. Music that's absolute perfection in your ears.

"Brittany." You know she sees you're melting inside when you finish the song together. You watch her get shy, you watch her duck her head a little. But gently, you put your fingers under her chin, gently you bring her eyes back to yours, gently, you kiss her, and when you pull back, you feel her fingers wipe a tiny fallen tear from your cheek. "That was really beautiful."

"So were you." She's earnest. She's so earnest. And you have to steal another kiss. "Thank you for singing to me, thank you for asking me to dance. And thank you, most of all, for letting me be a part of this night. This was. It was one of the best things ever, Santana. You do something, so. So, great. And, I just. Wow."

"Thank you." It's your turn to duck your head shyly. It's your turn to feel the tips of your ears burn. "I'm glad you liked it. It's my favorite night of the whole year."

"I think. I think it could end up being mine, too."


	13. Didn't Know What I Would Find There

**Brittany**

The rest of the year, it passes quickly. So quickly. You can't believe it, really. As you have Christmas Eve breakfast with your family, Santana with her fist gripping your hand under the table, because you hadn't wanted to go, but— as you spend the rest of the day and night, just the two of you and Otis. Exchanging gifts under the tree in your apartment. Under the tree you'd decorated together, drinking marshmallowy hot chocolate. As you twist limbs together in bed and wake up early, so early on Christmas morning. As you drive back up to New York to have Christmas dinner with her mom. As you spend the night, and Santana, she takes you in the morning to see the big tree, the decorations all over the city, the magic. You're just. Overcome. It's your holiday season, but. It's more. So much more. It's your magic. Your awakening, and, you just, you're still pinching yourself. Making sure it's real.

On New Year's Eve, she takes you for an early dinner. You start sipping champagne, you sip champagne all night. She holds you tight when you take her ice skating. You take her there, to the RiverRink, because you'd promised her the best view of the fireworks. You don't disappoint. You count down together, eyes on each other, more than the sky. You count down together. Four. Three. Two. One. Wrapped in each other's arms. Wrapped in each other's, everything. The bursting colors over the Delaware River, they paint her face. Her smile. Crinkly-eyed. Sparkling. All dimples and teeth. You know, you know, you'll need to get it on paper some time. You know, you know. It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. But then. Then she kisses you. Hands on cheeks. Champagne bubbles on lips. And you close your eyes. You squeeze them shut. You don't even know why. But. You do. And instead of fireworks, you see the future. You see your future with her. Santana. You see fifty more new years. All spread out in front of you. Waiting. Waiting. And you realize, the beauty of the fireworks. It doesn't even compare.

She hates winter mornings. Her joy about the extra hour of morning light, it wanes as the days get colder. She grumbles when she gets out of bed. She grumbles when she gets in the shower. She grumbles when she kisses you goodbye. And no amount of kisses makes her grumbling cease. So you pack her extra coffee. Sometimes you make muffins, or scones, or sticky buns, and you pack them the next day too. She always texts you to thank you then. Kisses and love hearts litter your screen. Kisses and love hearts for you, even when she's grumbling. Real kisses and love hearts when she comes home, cheeks cold and red, hands cracking, to find you hard at work painting. Because even through all her cold weather grumbles. She smiles. She smiles for you.

You notice. She calls your house "home" sometimes, and you notice. You spend fewer and fewer nights apart. And you wonder. You wonder, on those separate mornings after, how much she grumbles then. Because you might not do it out loud, but when you don't wake up with her, you feel extra-grumbly, too. When you don't wake up with her, you feel like a little part of you is missing. Like your coffee tastes a little different. The paint colors don't look quite right on your paper. Like your body is a little. Off balance, maybe. You think about it a lot. You think about it, and you find yourself wondering, considering.

It's an exceptionally cold Friday in February. A wake up alone day. You sleep in a little bit, finally, reluctantly, rolling out of bed when Otis nudges at you to take him outside. It's bitter. Your nose burns. Your lips burn. You think even your hair burns. You make coffee, and you climb right back in your bed when you get inside. You rub Otis' cold paws, and you catch the end of Santana's show. Really, you want to stay under the covers all day. You want Santana to come over and crawl in with you. You want to cuddle away each other's grumbles. But. You can't. You need to get back up. You need to do adult things. Time doesn't stop just because it's winter.

You paint. You close the shades on your big window, because the white and silver world is distracting to your work. You're painting mud. For a book about a little boy who decides to make mud pies in the kitchen. You don't like mud, you don't like mess, but, you find you're getting lost in the paintings. You dibble dabble drop browns and reds and yellows on the paper. You stroke your brush through the grey, and you paint a rainstorm. You imagine springtime and the rain bringing new flowers. You imagine huddling under umbrellas with Santana and kissing beneath stormy clouds. You imagine, and you're so distracted in your head, that you don't notice the flashing red light above the door. You don't notice, until Otis appears at your side, and he nudges you in reminder.

"Santana." You smile, when you open the door. You smile, until. Until you see how utterly miserable she looks, her hair wild, her eyes bleary, her back hunched over.

_Fucking winter._ She groans, turning around so you can see the soaked tops of her thighs, and then turning back to dial up the pout.  _I slipped on the sidewalk, I'm pretty sure I have a bruise the size of a small European country on my ass, and there was no hot water in my apartment this morning._

"Again?" You frown, but then, then she looks so downtrodden, that you have to run your thumb over the crease in her forehead, and give her a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. You think she sighs a little bit. You're not sure. But. Sometimes she needs kisses to make her feel better. And, you're always happy to oblige.

_Britt. I probably smell. I was not getting in that ice bath._

"Hey." You take her hands. You rub your thumbs on the inside of her wrists. Like she does for you, when you feel anxious, or frustrated, or basically— basically anything, it works for. "You totally don't. But. Even if you did, I'd still kiss you."

_I love you._ She smiles. Just a little. But. She smiles, and you pull her closer.  _I hate not waking up with you. It totally makes me day suck. Even when I have hot water and don't fall on the ice._

"I hate it too." You pause. You just, watch her a little. Her fire eyes, burning into you. Her fire eyes love you so much. "But. How about, you take a hot shower and steal more of my clothes—"

_Not steal, borrow._

"Okay, borrow without the intention to return, more of my clothes, and I'll clean up my paints and we'll take a bed nap, so we can restart the day waking up together?"

_Oh, God, Britt. You had me at hot shower._

She takes a long time in the shower. She always does, but, when she's cold, she'll stay in even longer. She tells you she likes to melt the ice out of her veins. And you laugh, you always laugh at that, because she's tough and strong and so put together. But sometimes, when it's just the two of you, she lets herself be a little dramatic. Sometimes, when it's just the two of you, she'll let herself whine about things that she'd never complain about otherwise. The things she'd never, ever in her life thought to complain about before. Because you. She knows you love to take care of her, and warming up your cold girlfriend, that definitely falls into that category.

You make grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. You forget that it's way past lunchtime, until you feel the rumbling in your stomach. And Santana, she must be hungry too. You've learned that she likes lunches like this. You could easily make her something fancier, but, she's told you under the covers that grilled cheese was her second favorite food, after bologna sandwiches, and before peanut butter on toast. She's told you that, and, when she has a long day, or a bad day, or she just needs a little extra loving, you're always sure to pick from that list.

Just as you're putting the food on the table, she appears in the kitchen. She'd found a pair of her own yoga pants, ones she'd left after a class a few weeks back. But she's got your oversized Phillies sweatshirt on, hood up and everything. She's totally playing up the cold. She's playing it up, and you love it. You  _also_ love her in that sweatshirt. Your girlfriend. A lifelong Mets fan, in your Phillies sweatshirt. It goes on your list of favorite things. It goes on your list of reasons why Santana Lopez is the most adorable human being in the world. You like lists. A lot. You're always making them. But, this one, it's the best of them all. This one, you're sure, will never stop growing.

_Thank you,_ she signs, and slips into a chair.  _The best._

"Always for you. You look like you need it after your morning."

_I'm sorry I was so dramatic. But, I feel a little better now._

"How's your butt?"

_Fine, as always._ She winks at you. And when she winks, you know she's really better. When she winks, you can't help the smile that comes to your face.  _It's not as bruised as I thought. Which, considering the last thing I want to do is ice it, is the best news ever._

"You." You lean over and kiss the tip of her nose. Because, just because. She's there, and, you missed her this morning. And because you can. "Are the cutest."

_And you are the best. And I missed you too._

You don't talk much while you eat. She's enjoying her soup more than you think any person has ever enjoyed canned soup, and you. You're just, really enjoying watching her. She looks like a little kid, buried in your hoodie. A little tomato soup on her chin. Buttery bread crumbs on her fingers. You always make her grilled cheese with those bright orange cheese squares. Because that's how she likes it. She likes pulling the triangles apart, and you know, that's one of your most favorite things about her. It's the way she appreciates the smallest things in the world. The way she makes them all feel like big things. Good big things. The very best. It's why you don't need to talk. Because the conversations you have without words, they're everything.

She yawns, stretching her arms over her head when she finishes. You realize how exhausted you are, too. You never sleep as well when she's not around. And you think, you think, it's because when you made a space for her in your life. In your home. In your bed. When she's not in that space, there's a weird emptiness. The thing that makes you feel off balance. The thing that makes your coffee and your paint colors weird. But she's back now. She's back, and. You just want to restart the day as much as she does. You're not even sure why you have those apart nights. Maybe just because you're supposed to, or something. You're not sure, and. And it doesn't really seem like it makes all that much sense at all.

Together, you fall into your bed. Santana, she tucks her front into yours. She likes to sleep like that too, sometimes. The two of you, you shift your sleeping positions a lot. Sometimes you're on your backs, her head under your chin. Sometimes you hold her from behind. But. This one, it's your favorite. Her head, under your chin. Her breath, on your neck. Her hand, falling to rest on your hip. And your hands. You push back her hood with one. You love to run your fingers through her long, nearly black hair. Your other one, it slips up underneath the sweatshirt. She's not wearing anything beneath it. No barrier between your skin and hers. You smile into the top of her head. You map her skin with your fingers. You feel her breath hiss out against you when you graze the tender, bruised flesh of her lower back. And you gentle your touch, rubbing it carefully, trying to take away the sting.

You fall asleep, and you don't set an alarm. It's Friday. It's Friday, and you have the whole weekend ahead of you to get back to your normal sleep patterns. It's Friday, and you want to waste the whole afternoon in bed with her. Because she's soft and warm. And it's cold outside. And this, this is just, it's perfect. You sleep, uninterrupted, until your body is ready to wake up again. When you do, she's awake already. Her fire eyes. They're on you. She's been watching you sleep. And. Your heart. It just. Flips. Flops. You don't know why, but, you love that she does that. You love that she finds you interesting enough to just stare at you, when you're doing nothing but lying and breathing.

_Hey, sleepyhead._ Her lazy smile, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You could just, lie this way. Forever. You don't see the sun, low in the sky outside the window. You don't see anything. Anything but her. Her and her fire eyes. Her and her sleep soft face.

"Hi. This is a much better way to wake up."

_I agree on that. Let's stay here all weekend. Maybe Otis can learn how to open the door and carry takeout to us. Then we never have to get out of bed._

"Move in with me." You say it. You hadn't planned it. Not at all. But. But you say it, and. You say it, and, you don't want to take it back. Because— if she lives with you. You won't have apart nights and lonely wakeup mornings. It'll be you and her, and your dog. This space. This space you made for her. She'll fill it, and—

_Really?_ Her eyes are wide. So wide. Not fake smile wide. But. But, really, truly surprised wide, and. You see the way her fire eyes flicker. It's not scared surprised, you don't think. It's, maybe  _yes_ surprised, but—

"Really." You think your voice is probably really soft, because it's hard to find. But, you hope it sounds sure. Because you are sure. More than anything sure. You. You with your order and your routine and your personal space. You want this. You want this so much more than you've ever wanted anything. You want Santana. In every way. "If you want to. I mean. My hot water hasn't run out ever. But. But that's not even the point. I just. I just want— I don't, I don't— I, I don't know about rules or, about—"

_Brittany._ She says your name. And then. Then she kisses you. Then she kisses you for a long, long time. Hands tangled in hair, hands pulling you closer, closer. And, you have to pull away, because. Because your heart races in your chest. It doesn't know how to slow down. Because you just, you need to make sure, before you get too excited. Santana. She sees it. Santana. She sees everything. Her eyes crinkle. Her dimples. The first time you've seen them today. They're back. They're back, and—  _Yeah, Britt, I think I'd really, really like that. Living with you. I think, I'd really like not having to go home because I run out of clothes here. I, wow, this would be my home._

"That's the idea, yeah." You think you might start to cry. You just, you feel so happy. This unexpected thing. It's. It's what you've been waiting for, you think. Even though you couldn't put your finger on it. You have now, and. And wow. "Me and you, and Otis, too."

_Of course, Otis._ She laughs. She closes her eyes, and she laughs. Because, she'd come to your house, all Santana Lopez and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But, now, now in your bed, the bed that's going to be  _both of yours,_ she's laughing. She's laughing so hard, because she's so happy.  _That sounds perfect. Yes, yes I'll move in with you._


	14. There's Nowhere You Can Be That Isn't Where You're Meant To Be

**Santana**

She asked you to move in with her. She asked you to move in, all wrapped up in her blankets, all wrapped up in her. Your favorite place in the world, really. She asked you to move in, and, you really, really don't think four words have ever made you as happy as those. Brittany, your Brittany. She's made so much space for you. Brittany, who'd been so hesitant when you'd first begun dating, she's become so sure. Sure of you. She asked you to move in with her, and, though you thought the butterflies would probably break free of your stomach at the thought, they're surprisingly calm. They're calm and sure, just like you are.

It takes nearly a month to get everything situated. You sort of hate it, because, while you're in the process of doing it, you end up spending more nights apart from Brittany. But, it's almost over. You find someone to take over the remainder of your lease, and, you begin packing. You begin packing all the things you've ever owned into cardboard boxes. You're getting closer, closer to the day you'll finally get to move in with Brittany.

It's strange for you, packing. You do it yourself. You feel like you need to, though Brittany has a standing offer to help you with anything you need. But, it's really important to you that you do this unaided. She understands it, she always does. It's part of what makes the two of you work so well together. You understand each other's quirks, each other's needs, and even when you're apart, there's this support. Silent, unwavering, and it's everything. It's a little hard for you, and it surprises you that it is. Material possessions, you've never had many, but you guess, the ones you've had, you've always kept so closely guarded, that this is strange. You've lived in this tiny furnished apartment since the day after you graduated college. You'd gotten the lease on it, clutching your contract in hand. The contract that you'd signed, getting your a job as an assistant on the morning show. The contract that you knew secured your future. You'd signed another contract, your lease, and, for the first time in your life, you were standing in a place that was truly yours. A place you'd pay for with your own money. A place that you'd slowly, slowly filled with little things, not too many, because, you're still careful not to waste money, but, enough that you'd made it feel like a home. So it's symbolic for you, this little apartment. It's symbolic of you, making it, like your mom had worked so hard for, and you think, you think, your small struggle with packing it up, it makes sense.

But, a place is just a place. You know that. Places, they've never mattered much to you either, even though you'd been so scared, as a little girl, you'd been afraid that you wouldn't have any place at all. It's who's in them. It was you and your mom, in Meadowbrook, in the places you lived before. And then, then you were alone in this place. This place you could afford the rent and fill with trinkets. This place, you could feel like you made a success of yourself with ink on paper, with checks on time, with things, things that mean nothing, really, in the grand scheme of life. But Brittany, Brittany is more than a house. Brittany is your home. Brittany is your future. Brittany is your everything. Four walls, and material reminders. They're not what you measure your childhood by, and they're not what you'll measure your life by now. They mean nothing. Not when the girl with the universe eyes is across town, making space in her closets. Not when the girl with the universe eyes has been so brave, and made a you-sized space inside her shell. Not when the girl with the universe eyes wants to wake up with you in her arms, every morning, hopefully for the rest of forever.

So, you sort your things into two piles. The keeps and the donates. You take your diplomas down from the wall and wrap them in brown paper. Just because they mean a lot to you, and, even on the front seat of your car, you want to make sure they're safe. You take down the picture of you and your mom, the day she got her GED. You were twenty-one, and you're sure, you've never been more proud of a person in your life. You smile, as you take down the picture of you and Brittany, arms around each other, cheeks red from the cold, at the skating rink on New Year's Eve. You feel a flutter, as you take down the painting Brittany made you, and swaddle it in the little blanket your mom kept from the hospital, the blanket you've hung onto, all these years, because it was a strange sort of constant in your life. You tape up boxes, you sweep your floors, and, when all is said and done, you manage to fit the entirety of your material belongings into your little Passat.

It's funny, you think, as you close the door one last time. It's funny, that you hadn't ever really considered leaving this place any time soon before Brittany. You'd saved your pennies so you could have something of your own, but you guess, if you're being truly honest, you hadn't ever really thought you'd find a person who you wanted to build the rest of your life with. And then, then there was Brittany. Then there was this girl, who ran into you and changed your whole world, for the better. This girl who makes you want all the things you were never certain about. The girl who you've known less than a year, but who you know, you know is the one.

Even after Brittany gave you the keys to her apartment, you'd still been ringing the bell before coming in. She teased you about it. She teased you about it a lot. But, you felt strangely superstitious about it. You felt like until you officially lived there, you shouldn't let yourself in. And Brittany, she entertained your superstitions. She greeted you at the door, she kissed you, though she still called you a goof each and every time. Her eyes though, they sparkled, her universe eyes, they just filled with amusement at you. And love, always so much love. You love how expressive they are, you love how those eyes, they always show that, no matter what.

Today though, today, you're officially moving in. Today, you'll let yourself in, with those three keys. Today, it's your apartment, too. Yours and Brittany's. And Otis' too. You find parking right across the street. You're glad, so glad, that you don't have to park down the block, glad that you don't have to make long trips carrying boxes— even if they are mostly on the light side. You're just, elated, really, that moving day is here. That tonight, you'll crawl into bed with Brittany, and it will be your bed too, from now on.

Mr. Shapiro watches through the window as you strain, carrying a box of novels, your heaviest package. He watches, and you tap your fingers on cardboard, a small wave to him. You're sure he's written some kind of letter to the landlord recently, but, like you've told Brittany, he isn't worth wasting aggravation on. He doesn't have anything else to do but be nosy and complain. It's nothing against Brittany, it's nothing against you, and you'd rather revel in your joy. You'd rather revel, and revel, you do.

"Santana!" Brittany beams when you unlock the door yourself and enter. The house smells like bleach and clean. Brittany, she'd cleaned. Brittany, she was doing everything to get the place ready for your arrival, and you think, really, it's the sweetest thing. Otis greets you, and you rub behind his ears. The two of them, you're coming home to them. "Welcome home!"

"Britt." Your lips curl up as you set the box down on the floor by the door. You think you couldn't stop them if you tried. Home. Home, you're really home. This place, this girl. It's just, the greatest feeling in the world, you think. You close your hand, thumb to fingers, and you touch it from your lips to just outside your ear. She points to you, and then mirrors your action.  _Home._

"I love that. Our home. Did you see the bell downstairs?"

"I didn't." You shake your head. You're not sure if she notices when she does it, but sometimes Brittany hops in excitement. This time, it's no different. She hops, and claps her hands together.

"Good, I have so much to show you!"

"I've only been gone for eighteen hours."

She doesn't say anything. She just, taps your nose with her pointer finger, and she kisses you. You feel her smile, her big smile against your mouth. You think, you think, you'll never feel sad or angry again, not when this is who you'll come home to every day.

"C'mon, let's go get the rest of your boxes, and then I'll show you everything."

It doesn't take much time to get everything upstairs. Only six trips between the two of you. Once your boxes are stacked neatly on the living room floor, and the garment bags with your dress clothes are draped over the back of the arm chair, Brittany is bubbling. She's bubbling so much, that you feel the butterflies awaken. You've remained calm and put-together throughout this whole thing. But now, now that you're really truly here, now that across town, someone else is moving into your old apartment, now that Brittany is before you, positively giddy, you suddenly feel like you might burst into flames, the intensity of your emotions, hitting you all at once.

You kiss her then, because you don't think you're really capable of words. She pulls you close to her when you do. And you stay like that for a really long time, surrounded by the things you need to unpack. But, you don't feel a rush. Even Brittany, who loves her order, you can feel she's not rushing either. Something about this, the two of you, wrapped in each other, it seems just as important to the moving in process as the rest of it. So you take these moments, and you savor them. You savor them, until you feel Brittany's bouncing toes again, and she grabs you by the hand, leading you back down the stairs. She leads you down the stairs, until you're standing in front of the doorbell, and Brittany steps back, holding out her hand for you to look.

"You put, you put my name already." You swallow. You swallow, because you think you might cry. You don't even know why, it's just your name, printed on her label maker.  _S. Lopez_ , beneath her _B. Pierce._ It's just your name, except that it's not. You hadn't even finished packing your boxes when she did this, when she made sure you knew, without a doubt, that this was your home too. That you're more than just moving into  _her_ place, that you belong. And you really, really don't know how she constantly manages to make you feel so in love that you forget how to breathe.

"I did. I. I had some time this morning after— after I did the other stuff I want to show you."

She's too much, sometimes. Too much, in the best possible way. She's too much, when she brings you back back upstairs, and she shows you the new return address labels she'd ordered you. She's too much, when she takes you into the bedroom, and she shows you, she shows you the bedding you'd been sort of eyeing the other day, when you perused the housewares department when you were in Macy's shopping for new shoes. Brand new bedding, brand new sheets, all spread out on the bed, with extra pillows on your side, since you always steal hers in your sleep. They're just, they're only things, except, they're not. You could have gone and bought bedding together, ordered labels on your own, but, Brittany, Brittany, with her order and routine, she's showing you, she's showing you so well, that this is your home, that you're not just moving into her place, that this is yours, together. And that. It feels so huge to you.

Together, you unpack your things. It really doesn't take long. Otis lies on his belly, and he watches as you do. You hang your clothes in the now-empty second closet. You put pajamas and t-shirts and underwear in drawers. She slides books over on shelves to make room for yours. You line your toiletries up on empty shelves in the bathroom. She shows you that she'd also bought new towels for you both, because, this is your new start. And then, then she asks you, softly, where you want to hang up your pictures, your painting from her, your diplomas, you truly most prized possessions, because they too, are more than things. She smiles at you, when you stand on a ladder, hammering nails into the wall. And you smile too, because, because. It's pretty amazing, when you're done, how it feels different, even in the exact same place you've been coming for nine months, how a few little things have just, changed everything. You can't entirely explain it, but you feel it, you know it's there.

"You okay?" Brittany asks you. She's always checking on you. Her eyes, inquisitive, always, and you nod, you nod slowly, before a smile spreads across your face.

"Perfect, actually, and I noticed that bottle of champagne in the fridge before."

"Oh you did, did you? I can't even accuse you of snooping anymore, since now it's your fridge too."

"That it is, Sweetheart." You raise your eyebrows, and you watch her laugh. She laughs, and you know, it's because it feels really good to say things like this, for things like this to be true at all. Things you both never thought, but have become so real, so quickly. "So, since it's my fridge and I've discovered it, does that mean we get to open it?"

"Well, I did buy it this morning for a special occasion. And I guess our first night officially living together kind of counts as a special occasion."

"Kind of?"

"Okay, fine, maybe the most special occasion of my life so far." That  _so far,_ you know what it means, and the butterflies, they certainly do too. They come back to life, having settled a little bit in the past few hours.  _So far._ The most special occasion  _so far._ Never in your life have you found yourself thinking about things like this. You didn't grow up with any sort of traditional model of love and marriage— which maybe contributed to the ease with with your mother accepted your sexuality— but, you feel it, you feel it in the future, and, you just, suck in a breath.

"Mine too, Britt." You feel yourself blush a little. You don't know why, but, maybe it has to do with those thoughts you were having. The rest of your life. This, knowledge that today, it's just the first step. "So champagne?"

"Yeah, definitely champagne."

You make her sit, while you get up to get the bottle. Because as much as she loves to pour you wine and cook you dinner, there's something about her eyes on you as you pop a cork and hand her a bubbling flute that you just, you love. You clink the glasses together, and, you kiss her bubbly lips. You kiss them over and over again.  _For good luck,_ you sign to her, swiping your fingertip over your forehead and sticking your thumb up. And she giggles, filling the room. She giggles, until you're giggling too, giggling until tears run down your face, giggling, kissing her again, and squealing, when you find yourself in her arms, and she's carrying you to the bedroom, to  _your_ bedroom.

Never letting you go, Brittany, she closes the door, and she pushes aside the covers. She lays you down, so gently, so carefully, and, you're just, you're drunk on her kisses, on the day, on everything, really. You're in love, and, this girl, this beautiful girl who slides your t-shirt up your body, and who presses the most tender kisses where your breasts spill out of you bra, she loves you too. She doesn't take her eyes off of yours. She never does. It's your favorite thing, you think, about your love making. The eye contact. It's intense. It's overwhelming, in the best possible way. Her universe eyes. They make everything just feel  _more._ She kisses your throat. She swallows your pulse. She swallows your unheard moans. And she never stops. Not as she makes her way down your body, swallowing your every twitch and tremor. Not as she slides your pants down your legs and drags her fingertips over your burning skin. Not as she works her mouth against you, as she slips her fingers inside, as she hits your every spot and makes you whimper. Never. She never stops drinking in your reactions to her, she never stops looking in your eyes.

You savor each other, you worship each other, for a long time. This night, it's big. This night, nothing else matters but the two of you. Nothing else matters but this, this bed. You're limp and sweaty and you cling to her, when you finish. Because, when your limbs are tangled like they are, when you're sated and surrounded by her, her smell, her taste, the sound of her breath against your ear, you just, don't think you can get close enough. She tangles her hands in your hair. She likes to do that after, to hold you that way, and you trade lazy, soft kisses. You don't move, you never want to move you think, and you watch her, watching you. Universe eyes and heavy lids. You watch her, and you write love letters on the skin of her lower back.

"Santana." Her voice is scratchy, the lingering effects of her arousal still giving it an edge. She rubs her nose against yours, and she moves, just a little, from where her forehead rests against yours, so she can see your lips better. "You live here."

"I live here." You repeat. "We live together now."

"I, do you, is, is it—" She stammers over her words. She does that, when she's concerned about something, and you feel your brow furrow. You're not sure why, why she would be concerned at all. "Did you, have enough space, for your stuff, is there, anything else you need, to make this feel more yours?"

"No, no, Britt." You smile. You smile, because this girl. You smile, because she worries about nothing sometimes, and, you just don't want her to ever have to. "I've never really needed much, to make me feel at home."

"I know. I remember, your story about how you used to have nightmares about you and your mom getting kicked out of your apartment. And how, when you signed your lease, it made you feel, for the first time, like you had control over that."

"I know it's dumb." You look down. "Because I could lose my job at any time, and—"

"It's not, it's not dumb at all. You saw people come and go, you saw a lot of instability, no matter how much your mom tried to keep you from that. So, I just, I know I'm rigid about things, a lot, and change is hard for me, but. I want you to feel like this is yours just as much as mine. If you want to, I don't know, paint, or, get new furniture, or—"

"Hey." You kiss her. Just, a lingering peck, but, enough to stop her rambling. "I don't. Right now, I don't want any of that. The things I want, there are just a few. I'd rather just have you.  _You_ make me feel secure. Britt. I'm not going to worry about having to leave here, because I know, that me and you, we're made to last. And in the future, if we want to change things together, we can talk about it. It's not something I need, though. If, for some reason, we had to go, as long as I have you, I know I'd be okay."

"Santana. Santana. You and your love words."

"They're not. They're just, true words. This feels like home for me already, and I've lived here a few hours. You, thinking to put my name on the doorbell, you, just being you. It's all I need."

"You're all I need, too, Santana."

"I know." You smile, you smile because you're not shy to tell her that. "I know, because I watched you let me in, I watched you do things way outside your comfort zone, and I watched you do them, just because you love me."

"I do, a lot. And, I'm so glad I never have to wake up without you again."

"Me too, Britt. Me too."


	15. What I Got, I'll Give To You

**Brittany**

Santana wants to take you on a trip. You're surprised, when she brings it up. You're surprised, because you think, you think a vacation, it's. It's something kind of out of both of your comfort zones. For you, it's being surrounded by people. It's a change of routine. For her. For her, it's about spending a lot of money on something like that. Something that's probably not really necessary. She's not cheap. She's not cheap by any means, but. But she's a saver. She always wants to know that she's got enough money put away, in case, in case. She likes nice dinners and nice wine, but, she always makes sure she saves as much as she spends. You see her sometimes, crunching numbers in her head, and you understand it, you do. You understand it, and you love. You love how she's messy sometimes, how she leaves her clothes around and dishes in the sink, but, her head, it's really organized and prepared, for anything. So when she tells you she wants to go away. When she tells you, that you're coming up on a year since you've met, and she wants to take a week off and spend it, out of town, with you, you're shocked, and, you're really— You're really a little hesitant.

You ask her if you can think about it. She tells you  _of course, of course_. Not celebrating your anniversary, of  _course_ you want to celebrate that, but, the going away part. But then. Then you realize. You realize, she's never taken a vacation before. She's never been on an airplane, or, been anywhere outside of this little three state area that she's from. It wasn't an option for her, ever. And, while your mom, she complained that she couldn't take vacations anymore, because it was just too  _difficult_ with  _you_ , you think, you think, Maribel, she would have given anything to have the same means your mother did. The means that weren't good enough for her, because you, her first born, you were damaged and unpresentable, and one single time, you couldn't understand something, and you mortified her. But. You're working on it. You're working on not feeling angry with her. Because, Santana, sometimes she comes off brash and angry to strangers, but, she's the most forgiving person you've ever met. She sees so much good, and, your mom, well, you don't have to accept her behavior, you don't have to see her, even, but you can't keep letting yourself think about the past. You're working on it. You are. And. Santana, suggesting a trip. Just the two of you. Maybe, maybe, if it goes well, it'll be more than just a romantic week. It'll help you with things. And it'll make her so incredibly happy.

So this is a big thing. A huge deal, Santana wanting to go away with you, to go away at all, and, you just. You know you won't say no. This big special thing, it's to celebrate your first year together. The happiest year of your life. You know you've gotten better at adjusting to things. And, a big part of you, it wants to go. That big part, it wants to have all the experiences, it wants to get on a plane and take time with no work, no late spring rain, no daily bathing of Otis, because he's covered in mud. And that big part, that big part just wants to feel normal. Normal, not just tucked away at home with Santana, but, out there. Out in the world. Out celebrating an anniversary that you never, not in a million years, thought you would have.

You tell her yes. You tell her you want to go away with her, and her face, her face is everything. It's crinkly eyes and dimples, of course, but it's also, just. It's. The wonder in her features. It's childlike excitement, almost. Airplanes and far away beaches. And maybe, maybe,  _if you want, Britt, we could maybe go to Disney World for a day or something._ She's adorable. She's absolutely, just, everything. She nearly vibrates with excitement as you sit together at the computer, planning, planning. As she waves off your credit card, because  _she_ wants to be able to do this— and you think, maybe, maybe, it's one of those things she needs sometimes, to know that she  _can,_ those things you never want to take away from her. She's beside herself, really. And you, you begin to find it rubbing off on you. You begin to suggest things, and your excitement, it makes her feel even more.

Together, you plan it all. You book a bed and breakfast for four nights in some little beach town on the coast of central Florida. Then you book three nights at a hotel in Disney Word before that, at your suggestion because, when she says  _Disney, Britt, Disney World, I never thought I'd ever get to go there,_ all you want, is for her to get the things she never thought she book plane tickets. She calls them on the phone to do it, because she knows. She knows you're nervous about flying with Otis, even though you know they have to let you. She does research, and she tells them you need bulkhead seats, so he'll be more comfortable, and you won't worry. Not about that. You rent a car, and you just, lie in bed at night, making plans, because she really can't stop talking about it. You've never seen her this excited about anything, and. You're still not sure how or why it happens, but. But it makes you just love her more.

And then, then the day is finally here. You're twitchy and nervous, because. Because you need to change the sheets. And put the clean dishes away. And vacuum. But she helps you. You clean the apartment together. You double check the suitcases, warm weather clothes pulled down from the top of the closet, washed and packed. She prints the boarding passes and goes over the folder of travel documents, because she wants to make sure you don't run into any potentially disastrous snags. You make sure you have all of Otis' paperwork, and you snap him into his special vest for the flight. You never put him in that, you don't like to flag him like that, to draw attention to the two of you. But, in this case, you think, maybe, you'll have less eyes on you, if people don't think you're just bringing your big dog on the plane because you want to. You feel like you're ready. Really ready. And, when the cab comes to bring you to the airport, Santana, she just, kisses your cheek, because she knows, she knows. Maybe you just need one last gesture of reassurance.

She holds your hand, all through the airport. She holds your hand, right up until it's your turn to go through security. Then Otis. He steps closer to you. He remains at your side as you go through the metal detector. And you're glad, you're glad, as you're sliding your shoes back on, that there were no problems. That you didn't have to talk to the TSA agents at all. Santana, she finds your hand again. Santana, she grabs the small carry on you'd packed. Just in case clothes for both of you. Your watercolors. The two trip guidebooks you'd taken from the library. Snacks for you and Santana. Food for Otis, because you know it's possible for your flight to be delayed. And. You don't want him to go hungry. Plus his stuffed dragon. It usually lives in Santana's car, but, it's his travel toy, and kind of his favorite. She doesn't tease you for being over prepared. She knows it helps you feel more calm. And leaning your body against her, that makes you feel more calm too.

"Are you excited?" You ask her. Once you've boarded. The pre-board tags on top of your tickets had given you plenty of time to get Otis settled beneath your feet, and now, now you're leaning back. You're taking a breath. You don't even need to ask her, really. She's being cute. She's being  _really_ cute, thoroughly reading the emergency evacuation instructions while she absently plays with the alert bracelet on your wrist. The silver chain, that you'd just replaced. That you'd just changed, to make her your emergency contact.

_So, so excited. This plane is pretty awesome, right? Do you want a drink? Or one of these snack packs? You're excited too, right?_

"I'm good on the drinks and snacks." You smile. You smile so wide. Her excitement. It flickers in her fire eyes. Her leg, it jiggles up and down. And she squeezes your hand. She squeezes it so tightly. "But, I am really excited. It's going to be a really great trip."

_You know, I'm also totally good with down time in our room. Just, tell me if I'm trying to do too much, okay?_

"I will. I promise you. But. I think I'll be just fine with doing all the stuff. If we were just going to stay home, we could have done that in Philadelphia. We've got a lot on the list."

_I know, I know we do. But_ —

"Hey, it's your first vacation ever, and my first since the Pierce family Williamsburg disaster." You shudder at the thought of that trip. Where you'd freaked out and screamed over the people in the stocks. Because your mom hadn't explained to you that they weren't real criminals. And, you were still recovering some brain function from your accident, so the world was particularly confusing then. You shudder at her embarrassment when you'd screamed, petrified one would get out and try to kill you. You shudder at the way she'd yelled at you after, back in the hotel room, and told your father this was it,  _you_ weren't going on trips like this again, even if it meant she couldn't take them herself. You shudder, and Santana draws love hearts with her thumbs on the insides of your wrists. "I want to do all of the things there are to do."

_Okay. Good, I'm glad. And, I'm glad we saved the beach part for after, because it'll be a good way to relax and unwind._

"Yeah, it's been a long time since I went to Disney. I don't even remember much of it, really, I was so young. But. I definitely think after, we'll need it."

You're surprised, given her excitement, but, not long into the flight, Santana falls asleep. Right on your shoulder, hands still all twisted up with yours. Otis. He sleeps too, and you're glad for that. You're glad that you don't have to worry about him feeling cramped and confused. But you don't sleep, instead, you watch them. Instead, when you manage to carefully untangle your right hand, you work on sketching the outlines for some things you have to paint when you get home. Your mind, it doesn't work as fast as everyone else's, but it is always busy. And you put it to use, drawing. Doing work things, not the fun things you'd packed your paints for. The drawing, it makes you feel at peace. Even though it's just pencil lines on paper. And. Before you know it, you're landing in Orlando. You're landing, and you're gently peppering Santana's face with kisses. Waking her. Because your trip is beginning. She pretends not to wake up, she does that a lot, and you laugh, because you know it means she's waiting for a kiss on her mouth. A kiss you're very happy to oblige her with.

It's late, really late, by the time you pick up the car and make it to your hotel. But. In the parking lot, you watch the fireworks explode over your heads, and. Santana. She has to pause, just because it's magical, those bright lights over the castle. She clutches your arm, and you're pretty sure, she probably squealed. That's one of those things. The list you have in your head of Santana things you wish you could hear. You settle though, for her face. Her bright fire eyes, dancing. Catching all the colors of the explosions. Her chin. Pressed into your shoulder. Because she does that when she's excited and wants to get close to you. Her lips, curling up. Entirely pleased. Just her  _everything._ Santana  _watching_  fireworks, it's so much better than the fireworks themselves, and you smile. You smile a lot, before you finally tug at her hand, because the show is over, and you're sort of completely exhausted.

She only gets more adorable once you check into the hotel. Her eyes are everywhere, and when you get up to your South-Pacific-themed bedroom, she actually climbs up and jumps on the bed. This girl, this beautiful, perfect girl of yours. This voice of Philadelphia mornings. This put-together woman who wears suits to meetings. This person who works so hard to change the lives of impoverished people. She just turns into a gigantic kid. And you melt. You melt to the point where you think you're completely on the floor. And you just watch her. Unadulterated happiness flickering in her fire eyes. When she falls on her butt, she's giggling, she's giggling, and she crooks her finger, calling you over. And when you do. When you do, she wraps you all up. In her arms. In her happiness. In all of it. These things, this joy. When you get to share in new experiences. You think it's the greatest thing in the world.

When she wakes you up, it's barely light. But, this girl of yours. She'd done her research. She'd planned this carefully, both to maximize your time, and to make sure you were most comfortable. You love her, you love her so much. You love her when she confesses to you that when she was little, she'd read the guidebooks in the library and plan imaginary trips, for when her and her mom were the queen and princess of those big Fire Island houses. For when her genie granted the great big wishes of a little girl in too-big clothes. You love her when she shows you everything she printed out about Otis. The maps of where he can use the bathroom. The short list of rides he can't go on, just so you plan your day accordingly. You just love her, because she's her. And, seeing this side of her, different, even, than all her other sides, you're enamored.

You're barely through the gates, when she's tugging you into a gift shop. She's beside herself, trying to pick out ears, and you tell her, she can pick yours, too. You'll wear whichever she wants, and she asks you, she asks you more than once, if you're sure. Of course you're sure, of course, you want to see her face like this for as long as possible. And besides. You have something you need to do while you're in the store too. Leaving her, deliberating over an entire wall of ears in every variety, you manage to go to the counter. You swallow hard, and you look at chipper girl behind the counter. She smiles at you. There's so much smiling here, really. And you ask her. You ask her for the thing you're hoping to acquire, and when she presses it into your hopeful hands. You feel your heart quicken. Because, you're thinking of Santana's face, and, you know this will absolutely make her day. You're thinking of that, and you don't even worry what the girl thinks of your voice, or your strange intonations.

"Hi." You come up behind her. You tap your fingers on her hip bone. She spins around, and looks between you and Otis. Fire eyes, dancing with something.

_Hey. So. They have dog ears._

"Like, Goofy and Pluto?"

_Well, obviously._ She raises her eyebrows.  _But, I mean. Also, ears for dogs. And, I mean, we totally don't have to. But_ —

"Otis, buddy." You look down at where he sits patiently, looking up at you. "Looks like Santana wants to put you in ears too, what do you think? Yeah? Whatever Santana wants? I agree with you on that."

_Britt._ Her cheeks flush. It's not obvious, but. You always notice. You always notice all the reactions her body has to you. And your heart, it thumps.

"C'mon, it's a big deal for you. I actually got you something, while you were planning to dress up my dog."

_Not dress up. But, they do have costumes, if you want._

"I think he's good with just ears." You laugh. You laugh, and you brush your thumb over her warm cheeks. "You can totally dress up, if you want."

_I think I'm good with just the ears too. But how did you even get me something? It's been like a minute._

"Ten, actually. Plenty of time to work a little magic of my own."

She furrows her brow, and you, you give it a quick kiss, before revealing what you'd managed to procure for her. A button, announcing her first visit to anyone who bothers to look. Her face. It's priceless. You think, you think. Most people, they wouldn't understand why this was such a huge deal. But, you think of little Santana. You think of her big dreams. And you think, you think, of how proud, how excited, that little girl would knowing the woman she'd become. You know that girl, she's bubbling out from inside Santana. You know, she's come back, because, she's waited so many years for this. Santana, she's reserved, you both are, with the PDA, but, she leans over right there, and she kisses you on the lips, anxiously taking the button out of your hands.

_Thank you._ She beams, pinning it on her ribbed tanktop.  _Britt, seriously, I know I'm being kind of really dorky about this. But, thank you._

"You're not. I mean, the cuteness level is way through the roof, but, you're not dorky at all. I love when you're excited, and I love being able to make you even more."

_You were one-hundred percent successful._

The three of you, donning the ears she picked— hers Mickey, yours Goofy, and Otis, with floppy Pluto— go to the counter so she can pay, and you begin to make your way through the park. You realize, while you're walking, that she doesn't even really need to do anything to be happy. Just being there, it's all she wanted. Just, hugging these characters, who existed in books, and the occasional indoor recess movie for her, is amazing. You're sure, no one would think Santana was like this, and, you're secretly glad this is just for you. You love her special  _you_  side, her  _real_ side that only you get to see, and, whenever you can, whenever no one is looking, you have to steal quick kisses. Because happiness, her happiness, it's absolutely contagious, and the more you soak it up, the more magic you feel inside of yourself.

You carry on like this, for three days. Otis, he's grown to love it too. You're pretty sure, he actually poses for pictures when the characters— Pluto, in particular— express interest in him. There are hundreds of pictures of the three of you, in different combinations, on different rides, with every character imaginable. Except. Except the one you know she wants to see most. You haven't seen him yet. But, you know she knows where he is, you see it, circled on her map, and on her character meeting spot announcement card, and you think, maybe, she's saved meeting him for last. Just because. Because he's so special to her, and she wants to end the trip like that. It's late, on that last day. You know you've got an hour and a half drive to the beach, but, you find yourself not wanting this to end either. This trip, it hasn't overwhelmed you nearly as much as you thought it would. Santana, she's spoken to you so much in sign, making it easier, you think, because it's hard to focus on lip reading, with all the chaos around you. Which really, has been the greatest thing imaginable, you're sure. And you wonder, if maybe the idea that you can't handle things, it didn't come from you, but— no, you don't want to think about that. Because nothing will put a damper on this. Nothing will make you sad. Not in the happiest place on earth. Not on your amazing girlfriend's dream trip. Her  _dream trip._ It's something you love so immensely about her. It's nothing fancy, it's nothing showy, but, she dons that first time visitor button like it's a diamond brooch. She's having the time of her life, and— you're in Epcot, outside the Morocco pavilion, and you feel her clench both hands on your bicep, because she spots him. This character, who she  _knows_ is fake, but who turns her into this shy, stammering person.

It's the first time you shed tears on the trip. It's. You don't have words. Because. It's just— You take the camera from her, and you capture it all there. One moment. One moment that just. You're going to hold in your heart for the rest of your life. And you know she will too. Because she's waited nearly twenty years for this. For Aladdin, the misunderstood street boy full of big wishes. The same kind of big wishes you know she had, too. Her same big wishes that came true. And still, as a grown adult woman, she hugs him tightly, Mickey ears still firmly planted atop her head, and tears stream down her face. You can't hear her words. You can't even read her lips. But. You don't need to. Not to understand what's happening. It's a joy that's unmatched. A joy that makes your heart flip over and over again. A joy that makes you cry. Because seeing her this happy, you think, it might make  _you_ even happier.

Much later, you've made it to the beach. She doesn't know about the things you've tucked away when she wasn't looking. Maps. Parade confetti. Pressed pennies. Whatever you could find, for some mixed media art you're thinking about. A surprise for her, later, when the trip is long over. And now. Now you're sun-weary and sex soft. In your new hotel room, with big glass doors, overlooking the ocean, so much bluer, even in starlight, than back in New Jersey, she'd undressed you, she'd cherished your body, leaving no inch untouched, unkissed. You lie on your stomach, her leg flung over your thighs, her chin, resting on your shoulder. She's left you breathless— even more than usual, and, she draws hearts and swirls and dreams on the bare skin on your back. You're quiet, both of you. After days of non-stop motion. Otis, he sleeps in the attached sitting room. And you and Santana, you're full of bliss, here in this little oasis on the water. You're restful, and, you're just breathing each other in. The bedside clock, the numbers flash on it. Just a few minutes before midnight. Just a few minutes before the day that marks a year since you'd run into her. Just a few minutes.

_Tired?_ Santana asks you, rolling over on her side so she can look at you. Her face, in nothing but the moonlight streaming through the glass doors. It's more beautiful than anything.

"Hmm. Good tired. Best tired."

_You're pretty._ Sometimes. She comes out of nowhere, with those compliments. The sweet little, somethings. And, they're your favorite. Lazy,  _you're pretty's,_ when her eyes are heavy. Really. Very few things compare.

"You are too. The prettiest." You brush her loose hair out of her eyes, and you look into them. Look through her. Those fire eyes. They're still dancing with excitement, no matter how tired she is. "Was it everything you hoped?"

_So much more. I mean, when I used to plan my fake Disney trip, we totally got there by riding a monkey that turned into an elephant, but, you didn't exist in my mind. And, I'll totally take you over the magic monkey._

"Wow, are you sure about that?" You laugh. You laugh so hard, until she's laughing. Crinkly eyes. Dimples. All teeth and happiness.

_Totally sure. You even come with an awesome dog. The monkey didn't._

"Well, that's true, and he did look cute in those ears. Almost as cute as you."

_Britt._

"You did. And. I'm really so glad you had a good time. Maybe, next time, we can bring your mom too."

_Next time?_ She looks at you. She looks at you like you're the whole universe. That look. It'll be the end of you some day. She doesn't even know, what it is she does to you.

"Yeah, if you wanted to. I mean, or we could bring her somewhere else."

_Brittany. You're something else._ Santana. She shakes her head, sometimes. Eyes all soft. And you love that, when you manage to steal her words away, because she's certainly good at doing that to you.  _Did you have a good time though? I know it was a lot, and we packed a week's worth of stuff into three days._

"It was perfect, Santana. It was really, really perfect. I didn't think I would enjoy it as much as I did, but, everything is better with you. And. It felt like a. I don't know. A big step, or something."

_Because it's been a long time since you've gone away anywhere._ She knows, she always knows what you're thinking. And. When sometimes it takes you time to put the words together, she reminds you that you don't have to.

"Yeah. And, I'm glad it was with you. I'm always glad when big stuff is with you."

_So am I, Britt. I think, I've been waiting my whole life to have someone to do the big stuff with. And a year ago_ —She looks over at the clock, and then she kisses you. She kisses you like New Year's, again.  _Today, I found you. So thanks for being my someone special._

"Thanks Santana, for being my someone special, too. Thanks for helping me find my way out of my turtle shell, almost all the time. Thanks for learning, and understanding. And. Thanks for loving me, as me."

_Of course._ She takes her pointer, and she swirls it in a circle. And then she does it again, the same motion. Your heart. It drops down to your stomach. Even though you think it all the time. It's still. Her saying it. In sign. It never fails to get you. Especially now. In bed. Naked. Her fingers, still trailing down your sides, over your bare breasts, over each and every freckle. One year, since the day you met.  _Always._


	16. In My Hour Of Darkness, She Is Standing Right In Front Of Me

**Santana**

Before you even open your eyes, you know something isn't right. Sometime in the night, Brittany had detangled herself from you, but you feel her arm, draped over your chest. You feel her arm, like a hot iron, burning into your skin. You open your eyes, and, she's liberated herself of the comforter, her other arm, it's flung across her forehead, and she whimpers. She whimpers, even in sleep. Otis, he knows something isn't right, too. It's not often that he crawls in bed with the two of you, but, you see him, at Brittany's feet. Eyes open, alert, watching her. She's sick, she's really sick, if her clammy, flushed skin is any indication, and you feel the lead in the bottom of your stomach. You know it's probably just a late summer flu, but, you don't even like seeing her with a sniffle. Brittany in any kind of pain, it pains you as well.

Carefully, trying not to wake her, you move her arm off your body, then her other one off her head, and you press your lips there in replacement. You check her temperature with them, the way your mother always did for you, and her skin, it scalds them. Her skin, it's scary hot, but her body, it shivers. It shivers at your touch, then it shivers again, at the loss of it. It shivers, and you can't help but shiver in response. Truly, you've never taken care of a sick person before— your mother, she  _never_ got sick— and you feel yourself begin to fret a little, not wanting to do her wrong.

"Don't feel good." She murmurs. You're not sure if she's awake, fully, but, you suck in a deep breath, because she doesn't sound good at all. "Need some water."

"Okay, Sweetheart." You say it out loud, though her eyes are closed, so you know she doesn't know you did. But you squeeze her hand, you tell her, without the words, that you're fulfilling her request, and you slip out of bed.

Otis, he doesn't leave her side. He moves into your spot, but he doesn't touch her. He just keeps his face on his paws. He watches her, and, you think, maybe, maybe, he feels just as helpless as you. Content though, that she's being watched over, you go to the kitchen. You debate for a few seconds about adding ice to her water, but, she's shivering, and, hot as she feels, you're not sure it's a good idea. You don't know the answers, you really don't. It's early, really early, and you can't even call your mother to ask.

When you return to the bedroom, Brittany is back under the covers. Otis raises his head up to look at you, and you just shrug your shoulders. Helpless. Setting the glass down on your nightstand, you kneel on the bed, you kneel over Brittany, and you watch her fitful sleep. You'd love to leave her be, but you're pretty sure hydration is vitally important, so you press your lips back to her forehead. You kiss her face, you stroke her bare arms, you try to wake her, gently, because you don't want to alarm her. It's to no avail though. She startles, and when her eyes snap open, they're clothed, murky. Those universe eyes, they don't shine bright.

"Britt, honey, I brought you some water." You tell her, and she shakes her head. She can't focus on your lips. It's obvious, and you immediately feel bad. You try to make it easier for her, making the sign for water, and she nods weakly, trying, and failing, to sit up.  _I'll help you._

"My head feels heavy." She groans. And Brittany, she never complains. She takes everything in stride. But now, as she slumps against the headboard after you help her sit up, she scares you.

_Okay._ You stick to signing, scrambling in your head to gather all the words. You're not even sure she's processing them, but, you tell her anyway.  _I'm calling the doctor. Drink this for me._

You bring the water to her lips, and she barely manages a sip. You know the feeling. When sitting hurts. When swallowing hurts. When simply  _existing_ hurts. And you wish, you wish, you could take it away from her. But, the best you can do is help her lie back down. The best you can do is kiss her already parched lips, because you figure, if you're going to catch what she has, it's probably already too late to prevent that. The best thing you can do, is kiss her forehead again, and leave Otis in charge, so you can call the doctor.

While you wait on hold, because it's Sunday, and the walk-in clinic is probably already overloaded, you make coffee. You make it, and you drink it quickly. You don't want to leave her for longer than you need, though, you hope she's gone back to sleep. Finally, finally, you get someone one the phone. You tell them she's sick, you tell them she has a fever, a high one, you think, but you can't find a thermometer. You tell them she's sweaty and disoriented. You're sure you sound shaky and panicked. But, you kind of are, and making the effort to hide it seems unnecessary. You know it's just regular sick, but, it's your first time handling it, and, it makes you ache inside that you're powerless to make her better.

The receptionist, she squeezes you in for an appointment at noon, and you thank her, about a dozen times. You want to let Brittany sleep a little longer, you have a few hours, and though Otis is extremely reluctant to leave her side, you know he needs to go outside, and you coax him to come with you. Again, you kiss her forehead, you brush her hair off her face, and you tuck the blanket around her when she shivers. You leave her, though you hate to, but, with Otis' sense of urgency to get back, coupled with yours, you're sure you won't be long. It's strange, you think, this is the first time you and Otis have been alone together. Sure, he'll curl up with you on the couch sometimes, while Brittany paints, but he's typically glued to her side, and, now he's a little lost, without her, as you walk him around the block.

"It's alright, buddy, she's sleeping." You tell him. You know he understands. He's the smartest dog you've ever seen, truly, and not just because of his training. He's intuitive, and, the way he cares for Brittany, it's unmatched. "She'll be alright without us for a few minutes, and when we get back, we're going to get her to the doctor."

He nuzzles your hand, in response, you think. When he's finished, and you get back upstairs, ignoring Mr. Shapiro's complaints about  _something_ you're sure you actually didn't do, Otis goes right to check on her. He cares more for that than his food, and even after you get his bowl ready, it takes a lot of encouragement from you to get him into the kitchen. Brittany, she's still sleeping, and when you peel back the blanket to wake her up, you find that she's stripped off her pajamas in your absence, and she lies curled in a ball on her side, covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Oh, Britt." You talk to yourself, you sigh, so full of worry, and you wrap your arms around her. You've got to get her up, but, the idea of disturbing her, when it seems she's sleeping soundly, it makes your insides twist. "Brittany. Honey. Wake up for me." You murmur the words into her temple. Making vibrations you know she'll feel. And she stirs. She stirs, and she opens those murky eyes again. She parts her cracked lips, and she releases another moan.

"I'm gonna throw up."

You try, you try to help her get to the bathroom, but, her knees, they buckle as she attempts to walk, and you're too small to carry her all the way. Instead, she vomits on your bedroom floor, and, when she does, she immediately bursts into tears and hiccuping apologies. Really, really, you never thought anything could break your heart, not the way this does, but the way she weeps, the way she can't hold her body weight up. You're destroyed. Sinking down to the floor, you pull her into your arms, and when she buries her face in your chest, hot tears soaking through your shirt, tears of pain and embarrassment, you think, you stroke her hair. You stroke it, and you murmur soft words of love. Because although you know she can't hear them, and maybe they're just for you, you don't know what else to do for her.

"Britt." You tilt her chin up to you. Because she's hot, she's so hot, and, you may have texted your mother when you were out with Otis, you may have asked her for advice. She's done this, lots of times, when you were sick as a kid, when you were scared and achy, and you clung to her.  _Get her in the tub,_ she'd told you,  _a cool bath, and then a little rubbing alcohol, it'll bring the fever down._ A bath though. A bath for Brittany, it wasn't going to be easy, even in her fragile state to convince her of that.  _Need to talk to you._ You sign the words, and you speak them, too.  _We've gotta get your fever down._

_Doctor._ She signs back to you, and you nod, confirming.

_Soon. Mom says a bath will help._

She shakes her head. She shakes it vehemently. And you know, you know she hates any depth of water, you know the idea of submerging herself, it's horrifying. You know, and you get it, but, she's almost delirious from how high her fever is, and you're scared of what will happen if you don't help her bring it down.

_No. No bath. Shower._

"Britt. You need—" You switch back again, when she keeps shaking her head. You're really, really glad at how fluent you're becoming. Because this conversation, it's important, it's really important, and you need to make sure she understands. You need her on board, because otherwise, you'll terrify her.  _You need to get cool._

"But the water." She groans, and you hold her. You hold her tight. You try to soothe away those old fears. Fears you know you never can. Because you, you've never felt what she has, that feeling of being surrounded by it, of being unable to make your way out. You can't soothe her fears, but, you can promise to keep her safe, you can hold her, and— You can get in the tub with her, the idea comes to you. You can get in with her, so she's not alone,

_Both of us._ You point between your bodies.  _I'll hold you._

"Promise?"

"Promise." You say it out loud. You see a flicker of recognition on her pallid face. "I promise you, I won't let you go."

You wait. You wait for her to nod her consent. Because you'd never, ever force it on her, no matter how sick she is, no matter how high her fever. It takes some time. Some more hair stroking, kisses on droopy eyelids and the crown of her head. But her nod comes. You know she feels that bone deep ache of a fever, and she wants it out. At least a little bit. You help her back to her feet, and Otis, he follows you to the bathroom. He waits with Brittany, once you have her wrapped in a robe, seated on the toilet, and you have the tub running. He waits with her, his head on her naked thigh, while you quickly clean up the bedroom floor, while you get a fresh glass of water, and clean, fluffy towels for after. He waits with her, while you go about getting everything ready so you can take care of the girl you love. The girl whose eyes you want to bring the universe back into.

When you come back to her, her head is resting against the wall, and her hand sits atop Otis' head. You smile at her, just, because you love her so immensely, and you want her to know that, especially now. Weakly, she gives you one back, and you take her hands, just for a minute to hold. The tub is ready, and she's nervous, you know, but, once you slide your own clothes off, you help her back out of the robe, and you press your skin to hers. She shivers, when she comes in contact with you, she shivers, as you burn, and you kiss her head again, trying, trying to soothe her aches. Otis lies down on the tile floor, and you're glad he's remaining close by, you're glad Brittany has the support of both of you, as you turn off the taps, and you step into the cool water first.

It takes Brittany a minute, once you help her step over the edge of the tub, to get her bearings. She's disoriented, she's  _really_ disoriented, and you hate it. You hate it so much, because you think it  _must_ feel even more intense for her, for her amplified senses to be out of whack. You stand there. You hold her from behind, and slowly, slowly, you sink down into the water with her. Her body, it stiffens, as you help her submerge, but you don't let go. You don't let her think, even for a second, you won't help her keep her head above the water.

This, this is one of those few and far between times, where you wish she could hear you. This, as you hold your sick, scared girlfriend in the bathtub, is one of the times you wish you could speak to her with words. Because she's out of it, she's really out of it, and holding her from behind, it's impossible to communicate verbally. But, then you think, you think of how much of your interaction with Brittany occurs without words. You think of all the times, when touches and caresses have done the job for you, and you know, most of the time, they're so much more powerful than the words any person could ever speak. So you use those tools you have, your special way to speak to Brittany. You settle her head on your chest, so her body is beneath the water, but her chin, it never hits the surface. You'll never let it, you'd promised that. And with the hand that's not wrapped around her midsection, you draw your hearts, you draw your love words. With your lips, you kiss her hairline. With your lungs, you breathe against her skin, and you let her feel the rise and fall of your chest from behind her. You're letting her feel your reassurances, you're letting her know you're there, and as the water leeches the fever from her skin, you feel her muscles loosen, you feel her body relax, right there in your arms. You don't need words for that. You only need presence.

For a long time, you lie with her like that. And you're sure, as she begins to drift in and out of wakefulness, that this is the deepest form of trust. She knows you, she knows that you'll take care of her, you and Otis, and the swell of love you feel, it's unsurpassed. You've never been a caretaker. You've been scrappy and quick, you've been ambitious and generous, you've given back, and you've cared  _about_ people, immensely. But, caring  _for_ someone, it's entirely different. Caring for someone involves your body, your mind, your very soul. And this girl, this gorgeous, gorgeous girl, who lies, limp against your chest, her hair braided back, so it stays off her face, she changes you, she changes you every day. Because in the way she cares for you, it makes you want to do the same in return, and it makes you love her, harder, deeper, to the ends of the Earth.

"I love you Britt." You whisper, though she can't hear you. You whisper it for you, mostly, but she knows. She knows with the love hearts on her skin, she knows with the way you kiss her head, she knows with your arms tight around her.

You help her out of the tub, and her skin, it's cooled a lot. It's warm, far warmer than normal still, but, it doesn't burn quite the way it did. She let's you wrap her up in a towel, and she puts her arms around your neck. She tucks her face into your neck, and you hold her there, just for a moment. She needs some water in her, some Tylenol, too, and she needs to get dressed, so the doctor can see her. But, if this is what she wants to help her feel better, too, you're more than happy to oblige. You're more than happy to hold her tight.

She throws up again, before you manage to coax her into a few sips of water, and two pills. You help her get dressed, and you dress yourself, before you leave her with Otis, this time, so you can pull the car up in front of the building. It's August, and it's eighty-seven degrees, but she wears a sweatshirt and sweatpants, the chills, back in full force. Otis lies at her feet, in the front seat, and she pushes her seat back to give him space, but you see it, her relief that both of you are close by. As you expected, once the doctor sees her, he confirms the flu, and, though he writes a prescription, he tells both of you, the best thing is rest, fluids, and more cool baths, to keep her high fever down.

For two more days, she stays as sick as she was. For two more days, you coax broth and Gatorade down her throat. For two more days, you wrap her up in blankets when she's cold, and you turn up the air conditioner when she's hot. For two more days, you take baths with her, and you hold her tight, in the tub. And you worry. You and Otis both. You worry when you need to go to the drug store. You worry when you take Otis for his walks, quicker, each time, at his insistence. But, by late Tuesday afternoon, her fever finally breaks, and when you peek in on her in the bedroom, she finally looks like she's getting some sort of restful sleep. Seeing her like that, peaceful, even Otis feels comfortable leaving her, and he comes and lies down with you on the couch. He lets you scratch behind his ears, he nuzzles your stomach, and the two of you, you take a much needed rest, together.

It's the feeling of fingers in your hair that you wake up to, familiar fingers. You open your eyes and, there she is. There's Brittany, skin still a little pale, wrapped in her Phillies sweatshirt, the one that you've basically taken ownership of, at least in private, and her eyes, her eyes. Her universe eyes. You smile, a sleepy smile, but, a happy one. Because the clouds are gone, they're clear again, and, the way she looks at you, you don't think there will ever be a time in your life when you've had enough of that. The way she looks at you, it truly makes you see forever.

"Hi." She smiles at you. The first true one you've seen in days. Her voice is still sick raspy, and a little weak, but, she's smiling.

"Hey. You're out of bed. How are you feeling?"

"Still tired, but, not like a whole bunch of those cartoon anvils are sitting on top of my body. I— I don't even think I really remember the last— what day is it, even?"

"Tuesday." You tell her, and you push yourself to sit up, trying not to disturb Otis.

"Wow. I don't even remember Monday at all."

"Probably better, it wasn't a good day for you, Sweetheart."

"Santana." Those universe eyes, they sparkle. They sparkle, even though they're still so tired, and she brings a hand up to cup your cheek. "Have I ever told you that I love it when you call me that? That I love being your sweetheart?"

"Only once or twice." You wink. "But, even if you hadn't, your eyes always give you away. You've got no secrets from me."

"That's okay." Brittany, she blushes, and you welcome the color on her cheeks. "I have nothing I want to hide, not from you."

"Good." You kiss the tip of her nose, and, you lean back again. "Because you know all my deep dark secrets, too."

"They're not very dark." Her laughter, it's music. Her laughter, you forgot how much you'd missed it in just a few days. "But I am glad you share them with me. And thank you, for taking care of me when I was sick like that. I've always gotten really scary high fevers, ever since I was a kid, but usually it's just me and Otis, until I end up texting my mom because I can't get up to make it to the bathroom. I'm— I'm glad I didn't have to."

"We take care of each other." You promise it to her. You think of her mother, and, you never want Brittany to have to worry about feeling like a burden. Never again. Because this, this relationship you have with her, you're partners, first and foremost. And her, being sick, her, letting you help her, it's another type of step in your relationship. "And Otis, too."

"Well, I did appreciate Otis' cuddling." She strokes his back. He was awake before you, probably from the moment she entered the room, and his eyes are on her. They always are. You two have that in common, you think, though for two very different reasons. "But he couldn't make me that awesome soup."

"Oh, you liked my chicken and stars? Send your compliments to Campbell's."

"Campbell's didn't heat it for me and get into bed with me and hold the bowl."

"That's true." You giggle, and you catch her, the way she watches you, like she's memorizing you. "I'd prefer if they refrained from that."

"I'm pretty sure you have nothing to worry about." She kisses you, slow, deep, the kind of kiss you haven't had for days, and then she sinks into you, her whole body still heavy and tired. "I love you a lot, Santana Lopez. I'm really glad I've got you."

"I'm glad I've got you, too, Britt."


	17. Bright Are The Stars That Shine, Dark Is the Sky

**Brittany**

She knows something is up. You sure of it. There's just. There's no way she doesn't. You've been jittery and secretive, and, you've had a hard time even talking to her. Because. Because you're afraid you're going to slip. You're afraid, really, that you're going to say something before— before it's time. Santana, she looks at you, full of concern, sometimes. Santana, you're worried she thinks something bad is happening. And, you hate that. Because you and Santana, you don't have secrets. You and Santana, you tell each other everything. But. This is different. This is really, really different. This, this big thing. It's something you need to keep to yourself. It's something you just  _can't_  tell her. Because, telling her, it'll ruin everything. So you keep it inside, and, she lets you. Santana, your Santana, she gives you space, she lets you breathe, and— Really, she's just something so wonderful.

It's October. The summer, it's long faded, and there's a chill in the air, especially at night. You've waited for this night, you've waited and planned, for nearly a month. Astronomy, you love it. Not in a scientific sort of way, but, when you were young, and you spent a lot of time alone with your paints, and you'd developed an interest in the sky. You'd started looking up maps of stars, but, the moon. The moon is what's always fascinated you the most. It's varying beauty, the colors that swirl around it. The fact that it's always there, even when you can't see it. That constancy, it resonates with you. And the Hunter's Moon, that blood red October full, it's always been your favorite. You have paintings of it, plenty of them, but last year's moon, it rained for, so tonight's, it'll be your first that you see with Santana, and— You're just. Vibrating.

As usual, you get out of bed with Santana when she gets up for work. You make coffee. You kiss her goodbye. You paint for a while. You go running. It's a typical morning, really. Except. It doesn't feel like it. Not for you. You're so incredibly excited. You're excited to share something like this with Santana. With your New York City girl who rarely saw the stars. You're excited for this. And for something more. So you keep yourself busy. You run the errands you need to run, picking up champagne. Picking up the passion fruit cheesecake you'd shared on your first date. You keep yourself busy, and when she comes home and falls asleep on the couch for awhile, you start getting ready. You roast peppers and eggplants. You slice baguettes and cheese. You carefully assemble sandwiches. You pack dishes and glasses and silverware in the picnic basket you bought together one rainy summer day at IKEA, while you'd been shopping for frames. Otis, he looks at you strangely, but, you scratch behind his ears. You promise him you're okay. And you check things off your list. Because that list. It keeps you from feeling entirely crazy.

It's time. It's finally time to go. The sun, it's low in the sky. And, you're leaving the city. You want to be where it's darkest. You have a bag packed with blankets and candles. A lot of candles. Because candlelight, it's the best kind of light, it won't take away from the bright of the moon. And candlelight. It's romantic. Love words, you're not so good with them. But. Romance. Making a nice meal. Lighting candles. Kissing her in a way no one has ever kissed her before. Those things you're good at. The best, she tells you. And, you believe her. You believe everything that Santana tells you. She doesn't lie. She doesn't tell people just what they want to hear. Not even you. It's one of the things you love most about her. She loves you hard. She loves you fierce. But. She doesn't coddle you. And she doesn't patronize you.

She draws love words on your palm as she drives over an hour away from the city light. This place, this place you haven't been, not in a long time. But, she'd asked you where you wanted to go to see the moon and the stars, and, it's the first place that came to your head. She's excited, you hope. She's excited, you think. Because she does, she does get excited about things that matter to you. And. She knows that this moon, this first moon of autumn, the one that's rising in the sky before your eyes, it's your favorite moon of the year. And it's better. It's so much better than it's ever been. It's so much better, because it's not just you and Otis, staring up at it together from the Franklin Institute Observatory. It's so much better, because you're sharing it with Santana. And there's nothing in the world that doesn't get better when you do. You love her, you love her. Your girl. Your everything. You love her, and, this night. This night is all you never knew you were waiting for.

_Is this the spot, Britt?_ She turns to face you, when she stops the car. And she smiles. Her smile. Those crinkly eyes. Those dimples. Fire, fire, fire. You swear, it truly does ignite you. She knows you've been staring at her the whole ride, but, she doesn't mind. She loves it, actually. And she always tells you, she'd known she was beautiful for a long time, but, she'd never felt it quite as much as when she reads it in your eyes.

"I think so, yeah." You nod. You can see the lake through the trees, and, it's a chilly night. It's chilly, and there seems to be no one really out. No one but the park rangers. It seems even more perfect that way. It seems more perfect, just you, her, and Otis. The way it mostly is. "Is this okay?"

_It looks perfect to me._

Buttoning coats and wrapping yourselves in scarves, you get out of the car. Otis stays close to your side. He feels your nerves, you're sure. They're coming off you in waves. But the moon, above you. That constant presence. It helps to calm you down a little. And her face. Her face bathed in crimson moonlight, it calms you even more. Because she. Santana. She's more constant, you think, even than the moon. Santana. She may not have come into your life until a year and a half ago. But. But, you know, you're certain, you're whatever is more than certain. That she's your forever. That she's never been anything but. From the very first moment you laid eyes on her.

Together, you spread a blanket out on the lakeshore. You feel her eyes on you as you light all of your candles. And when you turn back to face her, they're flickering, flickering in her fire eyes. Illuminating even more the beauty of her face. Crossing your legs beneath you, you open the basket. You take out the dishes and glasses. You unwrap sandwiches, you open containers of olives and strawberries. You pop the cork on the champagne. And she watches you. She watches you. She never stops. You eat, under the moon. You eat, with the waves lapping the shore in front of you. You eat, and neither of you say much. There's not much, really, that you need to say. You're just. You're enjoying each other's company. You brush fingers occasionally. You kiss balsamic vinegar off her bottom lip. You smile, when she tucks a fallen piece of your hair back behind your ear and refills your champagne glass. You look at the moon. You look at the rising stars. You look at  _her,_ and. Everything's bright, so bright, in the dark sky. Everything's so beautiful, all moon and candles. All her.

Before dessert, you lie down. You lie down, so you can look up at the sky. You wrap another blanket around both of you, cocooning your bodies inside. Her head, it finds its place on your chest. It always does. That space, just below your chin, you're sure it was made for her. There's no other explanation for how perfectly she fits there. It's cold, the air nips at your nose and your ears, but, it doesn't feel unbearable. Not with her. With her, you could lie like this. Forever. Forever, forever. With the dark universe all around you, with wishing stars raining down. Your gloved hand, it wraps around something hard in your coat pocket. It wraps around the small box that's safely tucked there. And you wait, you wait for the perfect moment. For the perfect moment, on this perfect night, with this more than perfect girl. You love her, you love her, and. The best part is. She loves you too. Just as much. So, so much.

"Dessert?" You ask her. It's been over an hour, just lying. Just lying with her. Otis, he's resting close by, but he's left you two alone. He knows, you think. You've told him. But. You think he understands. You think he understands. He understands things. He understands  _you,_ more than most people give him credit for.

_You packed dessert, too? What else did you fit in that basket?_

"Just that. Why? Are you cold, or, do you need something else. Or—"

_Hey._ She takes your hands. She takes both of them in hers. She always does that. When you're nervous, especially. And it's. It's. It's something. This total connection with her, somehow, you think.  _I'm good. I'm perfect, really._

"Good." A smile spreads, slowly, slowly across your face, and. You lean in. You kiss her. You kiss her. You kiss her, and you taste champagne. You taste champagne, and you taste Santana. She brings her hand to your cheek, she brings you further into the kiss. And. When you finally separate, you're breathless. You're breathless, as her fire eyes flicker. You're breathless. She always steals your breath. And you wouldn't have it any other way. "So do you want some of this?"

_Always. What did you make?_

"I didn't, actually. I bought passionfruit cheesecake."

_Passion fruit cheesecake?_ Her eyebrows rise up. You see the recognition in her eyes. You see how the corners of her mouth turn up. And your own. They do the same in response.

"You remember?"

_Brittany, I think I remember everything about you. And that night. You wore that dress, my favorite one. You ordered chicken aubergine without the prosciutto, because you like it, but not with eggplant. You held my hand on the table, and, no one had ever done that with me before. It was the best date of my life. Until our second date, and then every date after that._

"Santana." You say her name. You say it over and over again, and you shake your head. Because. She and her love words. They just. They make your heart flip and flutter. They make your stomach drop. They make you light up. Like the fire in her eyes,

"Sweetheart." She smiles, because she does it on purpose. She says that on purpose. All the time. Just like how you say her name. You kiss her again. You tangle your hands in her midnight hair. You just. You never want to stop. And it's her, who's breathless, this time. You stole it back.

You share the cheesecake again. Just like you did on that far past June night. One fork between you, she parts her lips, and she lets you feed her. She kisses you, between bites. And you swear. Things like this. How open and herself she is. No inhibitions. It makes you love her more. It makes you love her impossibly more. And beneath that bright red moon, with candles in the sand. With champagne and passion fruit on your lips. You're ready, you're ready. You're ready, for something you never, not in your wildest dreams, imagined would be happening. Not for you. Not for the girl who lived in her turtle shell. Not for the girl with her dog and her funny speech and her headphones. Not for the girl who had been taught to believe she wasn't good enough, especially not for someone as incredible as Santana Lopez. But. Santana.  _She_ is the one who believes you are. She's the one who's waited, patiently, as you slowly shed your shell. She's the one who still waits, sometimes, when you need a moment back inside. She's the one. This woman, who loves you, unconditionally. Who you know, without a single doubt in your mind, will love you, for the rest of your life.

"Santana." You say her name again. You love saying it. You love seeing the way her face twitches in response. You love that still, after sixteen months together, these three syllables have the same effect on her. She looks at you, and you just— "Hi."

_Hey. What's up, buttercup?_

"You're the cutest." You just. You really just can't with her.  _Everything._ "I. Santana. I. I'm just. I'm not good with the love words. You know that. It takes me a lot of time to make sense of my thoughts. Because, my mind gets jumbled up, and sometimes I forget what I was trying to get out. But. I have things that I need to say."

_It's okay, Britt. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere._

"I know. I know that. And I. I appreciate it. So much more than there are even words to say. The fact that you love me like you do— I still wake up in the morning and get surprised that this is real. But. I feel your breathing and your heartbeat and your skin on mine, and. It's real. It's so real. I just. I didn't think. I didn't even hope for something like this. For someone like you. I thought, it would be me and Otis, and then—" You swallow hard, because, you don't think about that. You can't. Ever. And she takes your hand again. She squeezes it. She tells you, without words, that it's okay. "I thought that I was too broken for anyone to love me. And then, you just appeared in my life. Right away, you filled this space that I didn't even know was empty. You changed me. I. You. You saw me. You really saw me, even when I was hiding. You loved me. You love me still. I don't feel afraid anymore that I'll look in your eyes and see that you don't. Because you. You've just. You've made me believe that sometimes people stay. You've made me believe that I'm special and worthy. And. You've just. Santana. I—"

_It's okay, it's okay. You don't have to rush the words out._ She soothes. Her thumb, it draws love hearts on the inside of your wrist. She doesn't try to tell you that you don't have to speak. Because, she knows. She knows you don't talk this much very often, and, if you're trying now, she knows it's important for you.

"Thank you." You feel the tears spring to your eyes, because you see it. You see that she's teary-eyed, too. Santana. With her love words. You're saying them to her, too. You're saying them. Because. Even though she knows. You want to say them anyway. "You don't treat me like I'm different. You don't see me as— As a burden. Or. Like I'm strange. Because I talk funny and I think slow and my best friend is a dog. My best friend besides you. You came, and— And. You became my love and my family and my best friend in the whole world. And Otis, he understands that. He understands that he's my best friend, too. But. But maybe. Maybe I needed a person too. I needed a person who laughs with me and talks to me. Who kisses my forehead and my fingertips. And. Who. Who just. Loves me. Loves me for me. Who I love, with my whole entire heart. You. Santana. You've shown me what it's like to love, and to be loved. And this, this thing we have. It's the most special and wonderful and important thing that ever, ever happened to me. I. I just. I want to keep it forever."

_I want that too._ She wipes her tears. But more. They fall. And you. You're just. You're weeping openly. You're weeping, because, no one, no one, will ever make you as happy as this amazing woman. Your special thing. The love of your life. And. You put your hand in your pocket again. You find that box. And you take a deep breath, before you slowly- Before you slowly take it out. Her face. Her face, and her eyes. Her eyes sparkle and flicker. Fire and deep red moonlight. It's beautiful and haunting. Just like her.  _Brittany._

"I'm not— I've never done this before. So. I don't. I'm not. I'm not sure I'm doing it right."

_It's okay. It's okay. Me neither. I mean_ —Her nodding. It's vigorous. Like she can't stop. Like. She wants you to do it. To ask her. And you'd known her answer. You'd known it, when you were in the jewelry store. You'd known it, when the two of you had visited her mom a few weeks ago, and you'd talked to her, hurriedly, while Santana went to the bodega for milk. You'd known it then. But. But now. Now that you see her face. Eyes. Flitting between your face and the box in your hand. You think, you've never been more certain of an outcome in your life.

"Marry me. Be my forever and ever. Let me love you, for the rest of my life. And after. For all the time that exists, and will ever exist. Let me love you, and love me back. Marry me, and, we'll love each other, forever."You rush the words out, through all the tears and the heart fluttering. You rush them out, and you keep your eyes on her. You keep your eyes on her eyes, looking at you, like, like you're everything and more. And she nods. She nods, and then, then, because she's just, too much, even, for your heart to take, she signs the word. She holds her right hand over her left, and then, then she clasps them together. She knows the word for  _marry_ , and you, you can't breathe. You can't breathe at all. "Will you?"

_Yes. Yes, Brittany. Of course. Of course I'll marry you. I'll be in love with you forever. I'll be your wife._

"And I. I'll be yours."

_You'll be mine._

Santana, she's still nodding. She hasn't stopped, and neither of you have stopped crying. You want to kiss her, it's all you want, in the whole universe. But. But you have a ring, and, your hands, they're trembling so much. They're trembling as you open the little black box. They're trembling, as you take the ring out. It's just, a simple solitaire, an antique band, though you'd give her the biggest ring to ever exist, it you thought she wanted that. But Santana. She's not flashy. She likes pretty things, but, they don't have to be big or expensive. She'd rather, she'd rather her things mean something. And this. This emerald cut stone, it reminds you of her, and now, now, forever, it'll remind her of you too. It's more than a thing. It's a promise and a symbol. A symbol of how much you love her, and how much she loves you too. Enough to say yes. Enough to be each other's. Forever.

Her hands. They're shaking, too. You take her left hand in both of yours, and you try. You try to steady the two of you. You're not very successful, though. But. But it's okay. You manage to slide the ring onto her finger. You manage not to drop it on the blanket or lose it in the sand. You manage that, and then, then you just, you need to kiss her. You need to kiss her so much. You need to kiss Santana. You need to kiss your fiancée. You need to kiss your forever girl. You need, you need— Before you can finish your thoughts, her hands, they're on your cheeks. Her lips, they're on your mouth. Her nose, it's brushing yours. Her teeth, they tug at your bottom lip. Her breath, her joy-ragged breath, it tickles you everywhere. You close your eyes, and she overwhelms you. You close your eyes, and, there's nothing else. Nothing else but Santana. Santana, Santana, Santana. Your Santana. Your truest love. Your greatest friend.

_Hi._ She pulls back finally. But her hands, they still hold your cheeks. Her eyes, they search your face. They search deep within you.  _Hi Britt._

"Hi, Santana." A laugh, it starts at the pit of your stomach, and then, then it rises, up, up, until you just. You can't stop giggling. All the pent-up nerves and energy, finding its way out through your lips. You giggle and giggle, and she does too. You giggle and giggle, until your sides hurt, until you feel like you might float away. "We're going to get married."

_We are. Otis!_ She's still laughing, and Otis, he picks up his head, and he looks at her.  _Did you know about this? Did you know Britt was going to ask me?_

"He did. Who do you think helped me pick out the ring?"

_I should have known._ She holds out her hand. She admires it. You don't think. You don't think she really saw it before. But now, now it shines in the flickering candlelight, it shines in the moonlight, and it reflects in her eyes.  _It's beautiful._

"And you look. You look, extra beautiful wearing it."

_You talk about me and my love words._

"I just. I love you. I love you so, so much."

" _I love you so much too. Forever and ever."_


	18. It Seems Like Years Since It's Been Clear

**Santana**

Giddy. It's the only word there is to describe how you're feeling, since Brittany proposed to you almost two weeks ago. Whenever you're not with her, you spend half of your time staring at the ring on your finger. You've almost gotten into two car accidents because of it. Jonas, he's been teasing you like never before. But you don't care. You don't care, because Brittany asked you to be her wife. This girl, the girl with the universe eyes, the same girl who'd once been so scared of everything between you both, she bought you a ring, and she asked you to be hers for longer than forever. Your butterflies, they haven't settled down for even a single second since that night. And part of you, part of you hopes they'll never settle down, because this feeling? You love it. You love it more than anything you've ever experienced before.

Your mom cried when you called her. You're surprised she didn't get on a bus to come down and see you right away. She's thrilled. She's beyond thrilled. She absolutely adores Brittany. She tells you she wishes she had a ring for you to give her, but that maybe it's better that the two of your make your own luck, since it seems you've been lucky from the very start. She tells you she already considers her a second daughter, and you're just, you're beside yourself with joy. You want to tell all of Philadelphia on the radio. They've heard you talk about this wonderful girl for a year and a half. And you will, you'll tell them all that she looked at you, starlight and universe eyes the only thing you could see, and she proposed. You'll tell them that dreams come true. You'll tell them that all the love advice you've been giving for years is finally founded. You'll tell them, because you're ecstatic and proud and just  _everything,_ but first—

First, you have to tell Brittany's family. She's dragging her feet. You know she is, and you don't blame her. It makes her feel heavy when she thinks about them. You hate that. This girl, this amazing girl, she should never have to feel like she's not worthy of all the world has to give. But, that's how they make her feel. You'd be lying if you said you didn't want to hate them for it. You try not to, because Whitney and Kevin Pierce gave you the love of your life, your forever, but it's really hard. It's really hard when you see a passing hint of a storm in those universe eyes sometimes when you're all with your mom and she thinks about her own. It's hard when you see her face fall when she remembers something they told her she wasn't capable of doing. It's hard when you think about how they let Otis be a substitute for the whole rest of her family. You love Otis, he's the loyalest of loyal, but, Brittany deserves him  _plus_ so much more. It's hard, because you love this woman with every cell in your body, and all you want is for her to have all the love and happiness the world has to offer.

Brittany, she decides that she wants to invite them over to dinner. Whitney and Kevin and Jessica, all in your apartment at once. It hasn't happened, not since you've lived here, and, though Brittany doesn't say anything, you think, maybe it's never happened at all. She wants to invite them to dinner, and, you're sure, there's nothing you can do to calm your fiancée's nerves. She's shaky and jittery all day, and Otis just looks at you, because you both know you both know, and you both suffer. But you let her work through her list, you know it's the best way for her to handle it, and you let her assign you tasks to do. Because the sense of control, it helps her. By the time six o'clock rolls around, your already neat and tidy apartment is spotless. The three bottles of white wine she'd sent you to the store for are chilling. She's been making osso bucco all day. She just wants it all to be perfect. And you grit your teeth. Because you might have a really unconventional situation with your mom, but you're sure that your parents are the  _last_ people who you're supposed to strive for perfection in front of. You're supposed to be yourself, and, when she brings her easel into the bedroom, you feel a splintering crack form down the center of your heart.

The two of you get ready together in the bedroom. Usually she turns and talks to you, but, today, she's quiet. And you let her be. You watch her smooth her dress and curl her hair. You watch her open her eyes wide, so wide, to put on mascara. You watch her struggle to put on her necklace, the one you'd given her for her thirtieth birthday, a tiny heart on a long silver chain. And then, only then, do you come up behind her. You come up behind her, and you make eye contact in the mirror. Her eyes, her universe eyes, they're flitting every which way, and gently, you move her trembling fingers from the clasp of the chain. You move them, and you take over, carefully closing it for her. You rub her thumbs over her shoulder blades. And you kiss the back of her neck then. Your beautiful girl, she seeks out your hands. She squeezes them, she holds them, she just, stays like that for a long time. And you let her, you'd let her forever. This is the most calm she's been all day, and, you want her to stay that way as much as she can.

"I love you." You tell her, as she stares at your reflection in the mirror. "You and me, Sweetheart, we're in this together."

"I know." She nods, and you watch the way her throat moves, you watch her try to swallow that great big lump. You watch her just, try, when you both know, all the trying in the world is never enough for her mother. "Thank you for that."

You help her to her feet, and Brittany, she looks at you, she looks into you, the way she always does. You're not sure, really, what else you can say, so, instead, instead you just bring your hand to her cheek. You kiss her lips, softly, so softly, careful not to smear the lipstick she'd spent so much time applying. Then you feel her. She pulls you into her, she hugs you tightly, so tightly, and stays that way, until the bright red light flashes, and the sound of the doorbell rings through the house. Your stomach clenches. It clenches hard. The butterflies, they're still fluttering, reminding you of the ring on your finger, reminding you of Brittany. Reminding you that no matter how the Pierces behave, you need to keep yourself together. For her.

Otis, he knows. He can tell by Brittany's nervous energy that it's not Jonas coming to dinner tonight- since he's really your only occasional guest, besides your mother. He can tell it's her parents, and she holds him with one hand, while she holds you with the other. You wish, you wish, you could whisper in her ear that it's all going to be okay, but, instead, you settle for drawing hearts with your thumb on her wrist while you open up the door.

"Hi." Brittany looks down, then takes a deep breath, remembering that her mother gets annoyed when she mumbles. "Thank you for coming to dinner."

"What did you make?" Jessica smells the air, and you squeeze Brittany's hand tighter. They're not even through the door, and you can feel the tension pouring off her in waves. You're sort of trying to kiss Whitney and Kevin hello, but, focusing when she's upset, it's difficult. "It smells weird in here."

"Osso bucco. I—I, um, got the recipe from a new cookbook Santana got us the other day. She had the author on her show."

"That's veal, isn't it?" Whitney raises an eyebrow as you usher them to the couch. You're not sure if she's directing the question to you or not, since she's turned away from Brittany, but, you don't want to answer for Brittany, so you sign it to her instead.

"Yes Mom, it's veal."

"Brittany, you  _know_ I'm a vegetarian." Jessica whines, though you're more than one-hundred percent certain that the last time you saw them and met for Mexican food, she was eating chicken enchiladas.

"I—I'm really sorry. I didn't. Were you always—?"

"Obviously she wasn't always, Brittany." Whitney rolls her eyes, and in response, your stomach rolls violently.

"I think it smells great, honey." Kevin tries, but it falls short, and you're pretty sure Brittany didn't even notice he said it. She's flushed and flustered. Otis stands at attention, and you just, sit down beside her on the couch, letting her all but glue the entire side of her body to you. "Jessie, I'm sure we can go ahead and order you something else to eat. Brittany didn't know."

You bite your tongue. You think it might be bleeding, but, you keep it clamped between your teeth for fear of losing it. Because Brittany spent six hours cooking, ironing tablecloths, rolling napkins, and you want them to appreciate how much effort she puts in. If it were anyone else, you would, you  _really_ would let them have it, but, Brittany is already anxious enough, and, besides not wanting to disrespect your future in-laws, disrespectful as they are, you know it will just cause Brittany more anxiety. So you remain quiet while Jessica apparently decides to play the martyr and claim she'll just have water, and Whitney coddles her, talking about changing the plans and going out to dinner instead.

"Jessica." You finally cut in, because you really hate how they have Brittany all twisted up inside. She'd worked all day in the kitchen, she'd made this beautiful dinner that's ready to be served, and, the idea of going somewhere else,  _especially_ when there are four meatless side dishes, makes your blood boil. You always look at Brittany when you speak, and you've taken to signing along, no matter who you're talking to, so she can understand at least what you're saying, and hopefully follow along with the parts she missed when people don't. "Have you had Britt's mashed potatoes? They're as good as a meal in themselves."

_Thank you._ Brittany writes on your palm. She doesn't often reciprocate your favorite thing to do, but, when she does, you're always grateful that you have a private way to communicate. You draw hearts back in response. All you want to is for her to know right now that she is loved, so loved.

"I'm still shocked Brittany cooks." Whitney answers instead. "We definitely didn't let her do it while she lived at home. We figured with her forgetfulness, she'd burn the house down."

"Well she's an  _excellent_ cook. I tell her all the time, if she wasn't such an incredible artist, she should open up a restaurant." Half of Philadelphia knows how good of a cook Brittany is, you'd told Brooke Parkhurst as much on your show the other day, when she was promoting her and her husband's new cookbook, and everyone at the station is beyond jealous when Brittany brings you lunch. But you know, you know about her cooking lists, the timers she checks and double checks, the way she sits at the counter and watches the numbers tick down. You know, and you understand, that this is a fear that's been instilled into her. But yet, never once has Brittany so much as dried out a roast while you've been with her. Never once has she ruined a meal. Never,  _ever_ have you feared for your safety while she works in the kitchen.

Brittany twists your ring on your finger. She twists it, while the other Pierces sort of talk amongst themselves. Otis has his head on her knee, he's barely taken a breath since they've come in, and, you think maybe you haven't either. You hate how her eyes dull when they're around. You hate how they try and steal her shine. Because really, really, who would want to take the starlight from the universe? Who would want to see sadness in someone they're supposed to love? Who would want to make her feel bad, when this girl, this wonderful girl, has worked ten times harder for what she's accomplished than anyone else?

"Mom and Dad." Brittany blurts out, interrupting something Jessie is saying about ethical treatment of animals. Apparently, in a month, she's become a real activist. Or, she's just trying to get under Brittany's skin. Probably the latter. "We have something to tell you. Something really important. I. I. Um. I proposed to Santana. And, we're. We're getting married."

"Is that even legal here?" Jessica blurts it out. Her first response. You know she's full of herself, but, that seems like a lot, even for her. Your stomach, it drops again, and you can feel Brittany's nails bite the skin on the back of your hand.

"Yes. For almost two years. And even if it wasn't, we'd go to New York, or, find another place. Britt and I, we've been together for a year and a half. We love each other, and we're building a life together." You don't know why you're feeling defensive, but, maybe it's because of Whitney Pierce's first response when she met you. These people, they're not tactful. Your Brittany, she's so careful, so caring, and yet, she can't be cared for by her own.

"Brittany, that's great news." Her father offers her a small smile. But you see it. You see how he looks at Whitney, to make sure that's okay. You're just, you're not sure why he doesn't stand up to her, but you almost feel bad for him. Or, you _would_ , if his failure to do so didn't hurt your fiancée so much.

"Now Brittany, I'm sure you're excited, but don't you think you're a bit young to make a decision like this?" Whitney sounds so patronizing that you could cry. You just don't even have coherent thoughts when she speaks the way she does.

"Mom, I'm thirty." You're sure she's drawing blood from your skin with her nails, but you can't blame her.

"You know what I mean, don't you? Sure, you're chronologically thirty, but realistically? You have trouble thinking things through, you know that. You go and propose to this girl without talking to your family first. That just seems a bit silly is all. Marriage, it's not one of your games Brittany."

"I. I haven't played pretend. Not since I was fifteen, Mom." Brittany, she's mortified. She's sad, she's just, breaking. You can feel it, how she fractures inside, you can feel it, you think, her physical pain, inside your own heart. You feel it, her embarrassment, the same as you felt pouring off her when she'd told you she played make believe until she was a teenager. She told you she played it, because she liked the world in her head better. The embarrassment that colored her cheeks, and that you'd kissed away, promising her there's nothing strange about that at all.

"About five years later than any other kid I've even met." Whitney mutters under her breath. It wasn't for Brittany, but, you know she's staring intently at her mother. You know she caught it, and she stiffens her spine and holds her chin up. Trying, trying.

"I'm a grown woman. I have an apartment, and a job, and a, a woman, a fiancèe. Who I love. Really, really a lot. I know that I want to marry her. I'm not a kid, not in my body, or, or, in my mind. I just. I'm really. I'm so. I'm happy. With Santana, and— And she's happy with me, too. She loves me. Really loves me, and she understands me. And we didn't just, decide on a whim, we—" A hiccup from Brittany's throat cuts her off, and you watch her. You watch her as tears gather in her eyes. You watch as the universe threatens to spill over, and you feel something deep within you snap. Something deeper even, than the night with Marcus, something at the very core of your being.

"You don't see her." You speak it low, calm, and you look at Brittany, silently telling her to stop you if you say too much. "The things I hear you say about her, and to her, they're not true. They're things that you're, I don't know, projecting onto her, just because she's not this idea you had in your head when she was a kid. So she's not who you thought she was supposed to be, so what? You're missing out on who she  _is._ Brittany, she's an amazing painter. She knows these spots all over the city that no one else has ever found before. She loves, she loves harder than any person I've ever seen. She pays for the coffee of the person behind her in line sometimes. Once she bought all the balloons from a guy in the park, and we spent the afternoon handing them out to people who looked like they were having a bad day. She's good, and she's beautiful, and she's different, she's so different than other people. But I don't love her in spite of that. I love her  _because_ of that. It makes her so special, and I wake up every morning and look at her and think how damn  _lucky_ I am that she loves me. You act like she's some kind of stranger, or impostor, or something, like you lost your daughter when she fell in the pool, but you  _didn't._ I just  _can't_ understand  _why_ you're not grateful that she lived. Why you're not grateful that you got to have the last twenty-one years with her. I've been trying, so hard, since I've met you not to be rude and not to question the things you do, because I wasn't raised to be like this, and the last thing I want is to create more tension and upset Brittany more. But you hurt the person I love the most in the world, every time she sees you, and I think— I think even my mom who was more strict about manners than anyone would be okay with me standing up for her. I just, I wish you would look at her, and that you would see all it is that I get to see. All the things that make Brittany  _Brittany._ "

Whitney looks at you. She's stunned, you know she is. She's obviously gone through all these years with people painting her as some sort of victim because of Brittany. And you can't imagine what it was like for Whitney back then, when she watched her child almost die, when she watched her re-learn all the things she'd already known. You can't imagine how difficult it was for her then. But, you know, deep within your heart, that she's been Brittany's greatest hurdle since. You know, that Brittany has spent her life trying, trying to be good enough, and always falling short. And for that, you can't feel a single ounce of sympathy for the woman who is supposed to love and protect her, no matter what.

"Okay." Kevin stands up from the couch. He's anxious, that's clear. "What do you say we have some dinner? Is it ready, Brittany?"

"It is." Her words, they're a whisper, and you're just not sure if you did the right thing. Though Brittany clings to your hand still, you're uncertain.

"I'm not hungry right now, Kevin." Whitney snaps at him. "So what is it you want from me, Brittany? Clearly not my opinion on the matter. You want me to pay for this wedding? When even is it? Because you know we're going to Zurich for the winter. And I'm not changing my plans because you have these fantastical ideas in your head."

"I know, mom." Brittany nods. "I don't. I don't want anything. I just, I wanted to tell you, because, you're my parents. And I. I'm getting married. We're not having a real wedding, I just, I don't know."

"Of course you don't." You know, you know your words didn't impact her, not like you'd hoped. Not at all. "I didn't come here for all of this, honestly. And Jessie's not going to eat meat anyway. So we're going to go have dinner, just the three of us. Clearly, you and your  _fiancée_ don't want us here, anyway."

"No, Whitney, that's not what I said at all. I just—"

"Save it." She holds her hand up. "Kevin, Jessie, let's go."

Otis, he's on his haunches. He keeps Brittany safe as her father tries to apologize to her. He keeps her safe as her mother, with her hands on her hips, tells Kevin to hurry up. He keeps her safe as she sits beside you on the couch, never loosening her grip on your hand, but, curling into herself, in her own way, pulling her shell back out. The dinner she worked all day on, it still sits warming in the oven, but Brittany, she murmurs something about needing a shower, and you just nod, because you don't know what else to do. You just, your stomach hurts. It aches and twists because you're  _sure_ you said the right thing, but you also burn a little with shame, because you think you made it all worse. You continue to burn as you go into the bedroom. As you pull off your carefully chosen dress. As you pull your hair back in a ponytail and slide into pajamas. As you sit back down on the couch, and you absently twist your engagement ring. You and Brittany, you don't have a lot of people to tell. You and Brittany, you hold things dear, and, you sit there, and you worry, waiting for her to come out.

"Hi." Brittany murmurs, when she finally comes back out into the living room. She's wearing sleep shorts and a sweatshirt, and her eyes are rimmed with red. She was crying in there. She was crying, and your heart, it feels like someone is twisting a knife inside.

"Britt." You sigh, as she comes over to sit beside you on the couch, Otis slipping down from where he lies beside you and going to her. "Britt, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Santana why, why are you—Why are you sorry?"

"I— She's your mom."

"She is." Brittany nods slowly, and tears, more tears begin running down her face. Tears you know that you can't stop, tears that you know she has to cry. It aches inside of you to see her like that, but, you have to let her cry. "She's my mom, and she shouldn't have needed to be told what you said to her. And I, I don't want her there when we get married, even if she decides she…I don't—"

Brittany collapses into uncontrollable sobs. You pull her into your arms, and you hold her tight, you rock her body with yours, and you swallow hard as you try not to cry too. She cries so rarely that when she does, it jars you. Straight to the core. You love her. You love this strong, brave woman so much. And you think maybe, you love her even harder, because you get to see all that no one else does. Her tears, they soak through your shirt, and she continues to cry. She molds into you, and you stroke her hair, you kiss her head. And you feel Otis, as he nuzzles her stomach, trying to calm her too. The three of you, you stay there, until she's all cried out, and she falls against the back of the couch, weakened by the intensity of feeling.

"I'm sorry, I'm just. Santana. I. I really mean what I said. I'm so. She just. She showed more enthusiasm for my sister's newfound vegetarianism than for me getting married."

"Sweetheart." You lean over and you kiss her forehead, a single tear falling from your eye and mixing with hers. When you pull back, you look at her, reading her, just for a moment, before you speak. "Anything you want, we'll do, okay?"

"Okay. I just. I. I don't want anything negative or mean on our wedding day, and. I don't want them there. Not on the day I know will be the happiest one of my life."

"Then we won't invite them. Britt, we're going up do it at City Hall, we already talked about that. We don't need to try to fill a church. It can just be us. We can, go down there, and get married, and then grab champagne, and I can take my new wife to Little Fish for dinner, because we save it for special occasions, and I know you love it."

"I like that idea a lot, Santana." She nods. Her whole body, it looks heavy and sad, and you hate it. You hate it so much, but, you know her, and you know, she's strong, and brave, and tough, and she'll be okay. Even if you need to hold her extra tight in the meantime. "But, I just, want to add two things. Your mom, she's been waiting for this day forever, I want her there."

"Britt, if it's too—"

"It's not. I know she'd understand if it was just you and I, but she's already called me her daughter in that text the other day, and—" She quickly wipes away the tears that threaten to fall. She doesn't want to cry anymore. You understand. "It just, means a lot to me, and even more to the both of you, to have her there." You nod. You nod because it's true, but also, because, you love her. So incredibly much that you can't believe it doesn't terrify you, to feel this way for another person.

"And what's the second thing?"

"Well, I think Otis would look really good in a bow tie." Brittany, she smiles. A real, genuine smile. A smile that makes you lean in and kiss her again. Because, she's just really something else.

"I'd have to agree with that." You smile back, and you scratch the top of his head. "That seems pretty easy to manage."

"What about you, though? Is there anything you want from our wedding?"

"Not at all. My mom, Otis in a bow tie, me and you, saying _I do_ and having each other forever. That sounds like pretty much the greatest wedding in the world."

You sit with her awhile longer. You know she really needs time to regroup before she can handle much more than that. It's late by the time you finally eat dinner, but her stomach growls and gives away her hunger, and you poke her stomach, making her smile again, before you make her stay where she is, and you go into the kitchen to warm up the meal she made, and pour some wine. You're two glasses in, when she snuggles back into you, and you tickle her back. You tickle her back, and she yawns a little. You know what it's like to cry yourself exhausted, and you kiss her eyelids, you rub her arms, and you sign to her, asking her if she wants to go to bed.

It's possible you've never gotten ready for bed as quickly as you do tonight. You wash your face, you brush your teeth, and you crawl beneath the covers with Brittany. Otis, he's at the foot of the bed, and you're glad for that. You're glad he's close by, because it's another night that Brittany needs all the love the two of you have to offer, it's another night that you're glad you can give it. She lies on her side facing you, legs tangled up with yours, and quiet, quiet, as you draw more hearts all over her skin. Her eyes, they're calming, the universe, it's going back to how it belongs, and you can't tear your own away from them. It's the easiest way to tell her you love her, you know, by letting her stare back into yours so she can just  _see_ it. She smiles a little, and then she brushes your nose with her's and kisses your lips.

"Santana." She starts. She finds your hand, and clasps it in hers. She loves to lie like this, as connected as you can be, and so do you. You love it so much. You never feel more at home than you do in bed with Brittany Pierce. "There's one more thing I want. But. It's. It's not about the wedding, really, so much."

"Okay." Your brow, it furrows, as you try to figure out what she means, but she rubs the wrinkles away, and she kisses you there in their place.

"I. If it's okay with you, I. I want to take your name. After we get married. I mean. If it's okay with you."

"Brittany." You can't help the gasp you make at her request. It overwhelms you, for some reason you're not quite sure of. Brittany, taking your name. The name passed on to you by your mom, because you were hers and hers alone. Brittany Lopez. The thought, it brings tears to your eyes. "Really?"

"Really. I've been thinking about it awhile, but, I just. I wasn't sure if you'd think that was weird, since we haven't talked about what we'll do yet. But, yeah, if it's okay with you, I'd like to be a Lopez. You've already made me part of your family and…"

You cut her off with a kiss. You can't help yourself. You can't help yourself at all.

"I think, Britt, that if you really want that, nothing would make me happier than you sharing my name with me."


	19. Love Is All, Love Is You

**Brittany**

You're surprised, really, that you don't have as tough of a time as you'd expected with essentially cutting yourself off from your family. You're surprised that when you receive the key to your apartment in the mail, no note attached, a sort of passive aggressive action on your mother's part, that you only feel the smallest sting. But, really, you know. You know that you don't have a reason to have a tough time. Not really. Not when. Not when for twenty-three years, you've been. You've been essentially made to feel like an emotional burden on your mother. You've been made to feel like a thorn in your sister's side. Just because. Because you exist, and because you're not perfect. You might be pretty and blonde, like the rest of them. But, you're imperfect. It doesn't matter to them that  _everyone_ is imperfect. It matters that your imperfections can be seen. So. It doesn't hurt you that you're not allowing them to define you anymore. It's a relief almost. You think. And. You're planning your tiny wedding. You're planning the rest of your life with this woman who sees you. And who just. Who thinks you're wonderful and beautiful as you are.

Thanksgiving comes and goes in a flurry. Maribel comes down to spend it with you. And. While Santana goes to spend some time at the station, coordinating her donations, Maribel, she. She just. Makes you cry, because she tells you, if you'd like, she'd be really happy to go look at wedding dresses with you. Santana told her, you're sure, that you were going to find one on your own. But, Maribel, asking you that, offering you even more of a place in her family. It makes you nearly shake. Because to feel love. Love in any form. It's just. It's a lot for you to handle. So you go with her. You go with your very-soon-to-be mother-in-law, because you and Santana, you decided that as soon as the holidays are over, you're doing this right away. You go, and you shop, and, Maribel, she helps you with veils, she does zips and buttons. And. More importantly. She gives you her time, she gets to know you more, and you. You learn things about the woman who brought the love of your life into the world. The woman who gave everything in her to make sure your Santana got to where she is now. The woman whom your almost-wife has nothing but the greatest admiration and respect for. She gives you time, and, when you find the dress, she hugs you and kisses your cheeks, and she just. She makes you feel so at home in her presence.

The third day of the new year. That's when you and Santana decided you'll be married. You're not wasting a second of time when the holiday season ends. And when you went together to get your marriage license just after Thanksgiving, you were thrilled to find that first Tuesday of the year open. You just, you want to be her wife. More than anything you've ever wanted before. You know. You know it doesn't change much in terms of your relationship. But. You get to have her in all the ways. In your heart, in your mind, in the eyes of the law. Santana Lopez. She'll be yours. Forever and for always. And. After you count down to midnight. After you hold her close and kiss her on the pier when the clock strikes. After you take her home and crawl on top of her in bed, reminding her that you belong to each other. After all that. You're just, you're buzzing inside. You. You're almost there. And. You can hardly contain yourself.

It's snowing, when you wake up. Not enough to really cause much trouble, but, Santana. She worries. Her mom is taking the train down from New York, and she worries that she won't make it. She worries that something will go wrong. So you kiss her. You kiss her and try to calm her. But it's your wedding day. And with your own heart pitter-pattering, it's hard to soothe her anxiety. It's hard to do much of anything. Much of anything but wait. And wait you do. You wait at home, while your dresses steam in the bathroom. You wait as you pack them in the car in garment bags with Otis' bow tie. You wait at the train station, when Maribel gets in an hour and a half late, and the snow falls harder. You wait. And you hold hands. And you tuck her head under her chin. In that spot. The spot that was made for her. The spot that will be hers, officially, forever, as soon as her mother gets here to witness your marriage. You wait, and finally, when Maribel steps off the train, her own dress in hand, Santana. She just. She embraces her mom, and she cries. Because that's what she does when she's excited. And you cry too. Because you're getting married. You're getting married in the snow on the third day of the year. And your heart. It's so close to bursting free of your chest. You love her, you love her, and. You're about to marry her. You're about to get this fairy tale ending and this new beginning. One you've never dared to hope for. One that's just. That's everything and more.

Maribel sits in the backseat with Otis, and you can see she and Santana aren't speaking at all. The snow, it's coming down harder. The roads, they're getting bad. And you know, you know. Santana hates that. You know she wishes you'd left the car home. But, you keep your hand on her thigh. You squeeze it. You try to calm her. But there are a lot of nerves everywhere. Not about getting married. Because that, you're both sure of, so sure of. But about all the logistics. About the snow. About the driving. About, just, all the things that even a dozen of your lists can't account for. But soon. Soon all the nerves will stop. Soon, your heart, it'll be fluttering only because it sees all the love in Santana's fire eyes. It will be fluttering, because you'll hold her hands and say your vows. You'll kiss her lips, and. And you'll leave this courthouse. You'll leave as Mrs. Brittany Lopez. And. You suck in all the air you can. Because it overwhelms you. In a good way. In the best way.

Santana parks the car, and you see her scowl a little at how much snow has accumulated in the parking lot. It's a lot, it's nerve-wracking. But also, it's beautiful. So beautiful. And you think, you think, maybe it's the most perfect wedding day you could ever have. It feels like. Maybe it reflects your relationship with your almost-wife so wonderfully. The nerve-wracking part. The beautiful part. The fact that it's not that oft sought out spring wedding type of day. It's different. It's special. And you think. You think. It suits you both. She takes your hand when she gets out of the car, and Maribel and Otis, in his protective little snow boots, flank you. In the snow, you fight the urge to skip. You don't think you ever have before, but— You're getting married. It's your wedding day. To this woman, this woman who just, changed your entire world.

_Are you ready for this?_ Santana, she turns to you as she puts the umbrella up over you both. Her dark hair, her thick lashes, they're covered in snowflakes. And she looks beautiful. The most beautiful you've ever seen her, you think. Though maybe, maybe, you feel that same way each and every time you look at her.

"I'm so ready." A grin, it spreads across your face, and her smile, it's. Crinkle eyes. Dimples. It's for you. All for you. "How about you?"

_I think I've been ready for this since the day we went to the beach._ She brushes melted snowflakes from your cheeks, and you swoon. You swoon, because it was the first day you knew what that heart thumping was. It was the first day you knew what love meant. It was the first day that you really— That you saw forever in those black fire eyes.  _You look beautiful, Britt._

"I'm not even in my dress yet." You shrug your shoulders, and she kisses your nose.

_I know, but, you're still the most beautiful bride I've ever seen._

"You and your love words." A blush, it creeps to your cheeks, and— "But I don't think it's possible. Because, I'm looking at you, and you're, you're just. I don't know a big enough word."

"Mama." Santana looks down, and you turn to look at Maribel, never dropping Santana's hand.

_I told her you both make gorgeous brides._ Maribel repeats for you, and your cheeks, they color even brighter.  _You're stunning, Brittany, both of you._

You go inside, and the four of you, Otis included, you change into your wedding clothes in the City Hall bathroom. You find yourself wondering, really, as Maribel helps you pin your veil. As you catch Santana's eye in the mirror, while she smooths her dress. As you tear up and see her do the same, like you've both sort of been doing all day. You wonder how many weddings this building has seen, since the birth of this whole country. And you wonder, truly, if anyone had ever been as in love as you are with Santana. You wonder, if you're possibly the best match in the entire history of Philadelphia. You wonder, most of all, if anyone has ever been as lucky as you.

Maribel, she slips out, when you're all finished. She slips out, and. And Otis lies down on the floor. And they give you a moment alone. A moment alone. With Santana. Holding your hands. Looking in your eyes. Flames. Flickering. Flames. Making your cheeks burn hotter than they ever have before. Making your whole body burn. Just from the way she looks at you. Just because. Because she really does look at you like— like you're the whole world and universe wrapped up in one human person. She looks at you like you know you look at her, too. Love. Devotion. Undying. Forever. In a singular glance. And you just. You have to kiss her. You think maybe you should wait, until after the wedding. But. Santana told you that she's been lucky since the day she met you. And, you think it's okay. You think it's okay to hold her cheeks and kiss her hard. You think. You think. It's okay to swallow the gasp you feel her let out when you slip your tongue inside her mouth and you just. You taste her and feel your heart as it pounds, pounds, pounds because of the nearness of her, and you just—

"I love you." You pull away, and you look back in her eyes. "I love you, Santana, and I can't wait to marry you."

_I love you too._ She signs it, too, and she gives you crinkle eyes. The crinkle eyes that you'll get to see for the rest of forever.  _Let's not wait anymore. It's time. Let's get married, Sweetheart._

Together, you leave the bathroom. Your hands, they're tangled together, and she leans her head a little on you. You love that. You love it so much. When she wants to get herself closer to you. You love it, because your heart beats faster when she's near. And. You love it, because it makes you feel like she trusts you to love and protect her. Maribel, she smiles again when she sees you. You see it in her eyes. How proud she is of her girl, and your heart swells with love for that woman. The woman who's opened her heart and her home to you. The women who gave you Santana. The woman who raised her to be able to love someone like you. To love you hard enough that you left your shell. To love you deep enough that she's made you believe that she wants to spend forever with you. In her hands, she holds two bouquets. And you notice. You notice that the brown bag she'd brought with her from New York is gone. Maribel, she'd brought you white roses and lilies and peonies. Maribel, she's treating this like a true wedding, even though maybe other people wouldn't. Maribel, she understands how important this is to both of you, and, you find yourself tearing up again. Because, you're marrying Santana, and this other woman, her mother, is about to truly become your family forever. And, you just. You couldn't be more grateful for that.

She takes pictures of you as you wait outside for your turn. She loves pictures. And Santana loves pictures. And you understand why. Why they love them, even more than you. The painter. And, you're so caught up in Santana. You're so caught up capturing your own pictures in your head, that you hardly notice the flash. This moment. You've been waiting. All your life, even though you didn't know it. You'd been waiting to meet her. You'd been waiting to love her. You'd been waiting to trust her. And, now. Now this is the last thing. You don't notice the door open behind you, but, Santana, even lost in your eyes, she snaps to attention, and you know. You know they've called your name. You know, the waiting, it's over.

Santana, she walks in first. She holds her mom's arm. And you know, you know they've been waiting, too. You know Maribel, she taught Santana to believe in love stories, even when she didn't have her own. She taught Santana that if she found a person to be with, to cherish them. And she has. She cherishes you in a way that seeps into your bones. She cherishes you, and you cherish her in return. Just a few steps behind, you walk with Otis. You don't have to come in separately, but, you'd talked about it. And even as untraditional as your wedding is, you'd wanted this moment. Even though you've seen each other in your dresses, you still want to catch her eye as you walk to her. And you do. You catch her eye, and. And she's all crinkle smiles and fire eyes and love. So much love that you swear, it might appear as a physical being. It might actually wrap you up and carry you away.

_Hey, you._ She takes your hands, once you've let Otis sit down on the floor beside Maribel— though he still watches with rapt attention. Once you make it to her, waiting to be your wife.

"Hi, Santana." You squeeze them, and, she smiles bigger. She smiles so much that your heart flows, and you look quickly down at the floor. You look down you make sure  _your_ love isn't a physical entity. You look down to make sure it hadn't spilled out through your skin. You look down, and then, you look back up to see her gazing at you. You look back up, and you see the rest of your life flash through the fire in her eyes.

The judge, she begins the ceremony, and, you suck in more air. It's hard to breathe. In a good way. It's hard to breathe. Because this. It's real. It's hard to breathe. Because Santana is beautiful in white. Santana is beautiful always. And she chose you. Of everyone in the world, she chose  _you._ She loves  _you._ And you can't wait to kiss her again. You can't wait to kiss her as your  _wife._

_I, Santana, take thee, Brittany._ She goes first. She speaks the most traditional of vows. Vows that you talked about. Vows that. That just. Seem to fit you both. Maybe more than the whole rest of the world. Vows that, in the simplest way, explain what you feel. You're not so good at love words, especially not in front of anyone else. But these. These ones written however many years ago. They've love words that just. Just express the things you want to say. That she wants to say. Even if you didn't make them up yourself. Her hands, they twitch to sign, and you know, she learned them for you. She hadn't told you. You just know. But you give her a tiny shake of the head. You need to keep holding onto her right now. Later, later, you want to see. Not now though. Now you need her to keep you steady.  _To be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, in love and in friendship. I promise to love and cherish you. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. As my one true love, for all the days of my life._

"I, Brittany." You need more air. Because. Because. Because. These words. This ceremony. And because she's her. She just. She mouths to you to  _take your time, it's okay._ And you can do it. You can speak the words. In front of the judge. And her mom. And whatever god there is up there, if one exists. Because they're for her, all for her. "Take thee, Santana. To be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, in love and in friendship. I promise to love and cherish you. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. As my one true love, for all the days of my life."

You have to look at the judge, because. Because she's saying it. And you can't miss it. You can't miss these words. Much as you never want to take your eyes off of Santana. Much as you want to capture her face as she does. But. You'll see it after. You'll see it forever.

_By the power vested in me by the state of Pennsylvania, I now pronounce you legally wed. You may kiss your bride._

And kiss her, you do. Kiss her. Like you've never kissed her before, you think. She's your wife. Santana. She's your really, truly, official wife. You're just. You're kissing her, and she's kissing you, and, you feel lightheaded and dizzy. You're smiling as you kiss her. And. And you feel her smiling, too. Because Santana Lopez, the girl who stole your heart. The girl who came and made you believe you were worthy of her love, of  _all_ the love, she's your wife. And if you don't keep kissing her. If you don't keep yourself tethered by her to the Earth. You're sure. You're more than sure, that you'll float away somewhere. Out in the great big universe. So you pull her closer by her waist, she wraps her arms around your neck. And the whole word. It's just her. Just her and you.

When you finally pull apart, you're both flushed and wide-eyed, and. Her mom. She's grinning and clapping. And you think Otis is smiling too. Sitting there in his bow tie. Watching you marry this girl he loves too, that he loved, you think, from the first moment you ran into her in the street. This is it. It's all real. And. You're Brittany Lopez. You're grabbing your  _wife's_ hand, and she's kissing the inside of your wrist, as the judge, she probably says a few more things, you think. It's a whirlwind, leaving the building, Otis, back at your other side, his leash wrapped around your wrist, and your coats open, still showing your wedding dresses. When Maribel opens the doors for you, the snow, it still falls. But, it's just enough that it makes the whole world seem magical. Not enough that it puts a damper on your day. Not enough that it will stop you from standing in the middle of Broad Street and taking pictures. Because you know, you know. Santana. She's been talking about those pictures for weeks. And you're glad she'll get them.

_Mama, take a lot._ You see her tell Maribel, once you get situated in the spot, and you slip your coats off, feeling just a little bad that your. Your  _mother-in-law_ has to juggle it all. But she smiles. She smiles that same crinkle smile as Santana, and, then you don't feel so bad at all.

She takes pictures of you under the umbrella. Pictures of you kissing. Arms wrapped around each other. Smiles. So many smiles. Because this is your day. She takes pictures of you with the snow falling down upon you. She captures your  _I love you'_ s _,_ because you just. You can't stop saying them. Neither of you. She captures Otis, coming to you when you call him, and Santana, beaming at you both. You take pictures of her and her mom. That woman, looking at her daughter with such pride. Santana takes them of the two of you, embracing, crying. And then, then some passerby who doesn't care much about the snow. He offers to take one of all four of you, and Maribel, she takes the center, and she wraps an arm around each of your waist. Her girls. Her daughters. Her family. The Lopezes. And. For the first time in as long as you can remember. You truly feel it. You truly feel like you're part of a real family.

You're bubbly, when you get back to the car. You've been bubbly all day, but. You reach over, and, you hold your  _wife's_ hand while she navigates the snowy roads. And it's more. Nothing's changed, really, nothing but some legal document. But, it feels like everything has. She's your wife. Your wife. Santana. She is your wife. And she feels it too. When she's at a stoplight. She writes the word on your hand. And you swear, your smile can be seen on another planet.

In the restaurant, the chef himself comes out to congratulate you. And Santana, she offers him champagne. Santana, she wants to toast to your marriage with anyone who will. She loves you. And she's proud. She's so proud that. You just. You melt and you flutter and you float. Your wife. She wants to show you off to the world. And. For the first time. You really feel like you want to let her. It all feels like a dream. Except. Except you know, truly, that it's not one you're waking up from. You know, truly, as she leans over and lifts an oyster to your lips, before she kisses them again, that this is the realest real thing you've ever known.

You leave your wedding celebration, and, the gentle snowfall, it's turned into a storm. The night dark sky, it looks ominous, and Santana, she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. She does that, when she just, can't figure things out in her mind, something rare for her. And you know. You know what it is, and you pull her off to the side, because you want to talk to her privately. You don't want to be rude, but, you know she won't tell you what she's thinking, because it's your wedding night, and—

"Maribel, excuse us for just a minute?" You ask, standing under the restaurant awning, and Maribel, she nods in response. You pull Santana to the side, and, you rub your hands up and down her arms, calming her down. She rarely gets anxious, but, this is bad weather, really bad weather and— "I think we should take a cab home. We'll come back here and pick up the car tomorrow, or when it clears up."

_Yeah. I think so, too. I don't feel comfortable driving you guys. But, do you mind if we get my mom to her hotel? I just don't want to stick her in a separate cab and_ —

"Let's bring her home with us."

_Britt, Sweetheart, I can't ask you do that. It's our wedding night, and that's why we got her a hotel room._

"You're not asking. I'm telling you I think it's a good idea, too. Santana, we're going to be married forever. And our family. They're part of that, too. It's not just about you and I. Your mom and Otis, they're part of us. A big important part. And I want her to come be safe in our house." You keep moving your hands over her body, just, touching her.

_You're sure about that?_

"So sure. It's not like we don't have our own bedroom." You tease a little, and then turn back to serious. "You're worried, and, I'll be worried too, and—" She cuts you off, kissing you. Kissing you hard, and, when she breaks it. You just. You see so much love and gratitude in her eyes that you have to kiss her again.

_You, Brittany Lopez, are the best wife in the entire world._

"Say that again." You gasp at her words. Your new name. The way her lips curl up when she says it. The way they stay that way through the word  _wife._ And she says it again. Making your heart race. Making your knees weak. "Wife. You're my wife."

_It's the best feeling in the world, right?_

"Better than anything."

The snow, it keeps coming down, while Santana calls a cab. While she runs to the car to grab her mom's little suitcase, and she kisses you again, telling you to stay out of the snow. It keeps coming down when the driver arrives, and Maribel takes the front seat, leaving you two to snuggle up together in the back, Santana in the middle seat, and Otis strapped on the passenger side. She leans on you. You play with her hands. She draws love hearts in the lace of your wedding dress. And you just, you love this. Even on the long snowy ride home. You love this so much. You love feeling wrapped in her. You love. With your whole heart. You love it all.

When you get home, you cross the threshold together. You'd thought about scooping Santana up, but. Something about this. It just feels more right. Maribel, she brushes off your offers to entertain her, and she closes herself in the small office where Santana blows up a mattress for her whenever she comes to visit. So it's just you. You and Santana. You and your very new wife. You help each other out of your wedding dresses in the bathroom, and you turn off all the lights. You light candles. Everywhere. All over the bathroom. The bedroom. Because you want to shower together. Your wedding night, it's about so much more than sex. It's about the other types of physical intimacy you share. It's about the emotional intimacy. It's just. All about your love.

It's later, and you're curled in bed with her. Warm pajamas on. Blankets surrounding you. And candles. Still candles. Just on the nightstand now. Because you know neither of you will have the will to get back up. Outside your window, you see the way the snow keeps falling. But. You've showered. She's signed her vows to you. And you cried. Then she cried. Then you pressed kisses all over her body. You'd made love to each other. Sweet. Tender. Drawn out. Because, it's okay. You're alone in your bedroom, and you're married. And. You love your wife. With everything in you. You're tired. She's tired. But, you're not ready for the day to end yet. It all just feels. Too perfect to say goodbye. So you fight. You fight to keep your eyes open. You try so hard not to be lulled into slumber by the way she paints your body with her hands. Like she's still memorizing it, even after all the time you've spent together. In the candlelight, you see her lips. You kiss them, and then you watch them. Because those lips. You think you know them better than any person will ever know another's. You study them, you love them, and, they curl up, in just the faintest smile.

_You're thinking hard. Really hard. Are you okay?_

"I'm just. I'm perfect. Really. This day was just."

_I know. It was. I thought the snow put a damper on our plans, but, you made sure it didn't._

"Well, you're my wife now. So. I wouldn't let it."

_Well, thank you for that. You're my favorite thing, you know. My special, wonderful girl._

"And you're mine, too, Santana. Just like the vows said. My one true love."

_My favorite person._ She smiles. She smiles so much, flickering light in her fire eyes, and. It doesn't matter that it wasn't in those vows. You know it's true for you too. The most true. You hold her close, and. You're happy. So happy. So content.  _And you are very, very tired, Mrs. Lopez. I can see it in your eyes. My universe, it's about to sleep._

"Don't want today to be over though. It was the best day."

_Sleep, sleep, Sweetheart. Today was just the beginning._


	20. When I'm Home, Everything Seems To Be Right

**Santana**

Married. You're married. You're married to Brittany, the girl with the universe eyes, the girl who bumped into you on the sidewalk, and who turned your entire world upside down. It's been nearly two months and still, still you're hit with it sometimes. When you get out of the shower in the mornings, and she's back in bed— because she still insists on waking up to make you coffee before work, though you've insisted a thousand times that she doesn't have to— all tucked beneath the blankets, blonde hair splayed about on the pillow. When you go to bed before her sometimes, and she kisses you goodnight, careful not to wind her paint-covered hands in your hair. When you're walking, gloved hand in gloved hand, down the street, and you feel where her wedding band is, even through the barriers. When you come home, and see the name on your doorbell,  _B & S Lopez. _When you're working, and Jonas casually mentions your wife on air. You're married, you're married, and those butterflies in your stomach, they love that word.

It's been a rough winter. It seems like every week, there's another violent snowstorm. You never remember a winter like this, certainly not in Philadelphia, and never back home in New York, either. You call constantly to check on your mom, but she's fine, the subways are running, the buses are mostly running, and her apartment is warm. You go with Brittany to stock up on canned goods and coffee and candles. The night before each storm, you hold her close in the grocery store as you shuffle through the crowds to fill your cart with milk and bread and meat and eggs. She likes to be prepared, your wife, and you're glad for it. You're glad that you can bury yourselves under blankets on the couch, you can lay your head on Brittany's chest, and Otis can sit up on the window bench, watching the raging winter outside beneath you. You're glad that she likes to prepare, because it makes you feel safer. As a kid, you'd gone days without heat in your building, your mom, she'd worried about you not having anything to eat, about you staying warm, and about getting to work in the bad weather. So this, having food in the cupboards, the love of your life holding you tight, it's the most secure you've ever been, and much as trudging through snow and ice to work in the early morning hours sucks, you get to come home to her, to your wife, and you know, winter's not so bad.

Winter's not so bad, until the power goes out. Because that's one thing, one small thing, that really makes Brittany more uneasy than anything else. The dark disorients her, you'd learned that early on in her relationship, when you'd noticed she sleeps with the hall light on, just in case she needs to get up in the middle of the night. It disorients her, and being alone without power, that makes it far worse, even in the daytime. The first time the power goes out, you're at work. You're in the last half hour of your show, and you and Jonas are bantering back and forth. He's teasing you about the Mets, because there's a snowstorm outside, and somehow he's on a kick about Opening Day, even though it's weeks away. You tell him you're married to a Phillies fan, and then he teases you some more about your dopey Brittany smile. It's all fun and games, until it goes pitch black in the studio, and you feel your heart lurch. There aren't any windows, and you literally cannot see your hand in front of your face. Jonas, he finds his phone before the generators kick on, and he illuminates the room with the flashlight, letting you find your own, with a text already waiting from your wife.

Is the power out there? Lost internet connection so I can't see if you're still on air :(

Her text message sounds calm, but you know her. You text her back quickly, you tell her that it's the same situation at the station, and you promise her, you promise her that you'll be home soon, and not to worry. Jonas, he'd picked you up for work, because he knows you hate driving in the snow, and once the generators kick on, you give your listeners an update, and you pass the show off to Carla, who does the mid-morning show. You're jittery, and not in a good way. Your skin crawls, when you're anxious, and Jonas, he gets that. Jonas, he grabs your bag and your thermos for you, and once your coat is on, he leads the way out to the car. In the five hours you'd been inside, the snow, it must have fallen another six inches, and you're glad, for once, that Jonas insists on driving one of those gas-guzzling SUVs that you usually ream him about. Together, you scrape the snow from the windows, though you can barely reach, and you're soaked pretty much all over, by the time you get inside, and he cranks up the heat. He's a careful driver, the safest you know, and still, even with the street lights out, he manages to get you home in half the time it would have taken you, had you driven yourself.

Jonas promises to send you a text when he's safely home, and before you head up to Brittany, you feel the urge to knock on Mr. Shapiro's door, just to make sure he has everything he needs. The two of you, you've grown on the old man, and he can't help but smile as he tells you he's okay, he can't help but smile as he tells you to say hello to Brittany for him, and you make him promise to knock on your door if there's anything that he needs later on. You run up the stairs then, and you open the door, finding Brittany, standing at her easel, layers of clothes and thick socks on, painting, painting in the natural light from outside, because you know it draws the nervousness from within her. It's routine, and it helps her feel secure. Otis, he stands close to her, and you know, you know, she's freaked out. You know, she's been desperately waiting for you to make it home. Normally, you flick the lights to tell her you're home, because you don't like sneaking up on her, but when you don't, you see Otis nudge her hand, you see Otis alert her of your presence, and she turns around, dropping her paintbrush in the water and breaking from her painting of a little girl in a garden.

"Santana." Her whole body sighs in relief when she sees you, and you step into her arms, neither of you caring that she has paint covering the front of her sweatshirt, neither of you caring about anything but embracing each other. Because you're home safe, you're together. You don't have to worry about food, or travel, or warmth. Because the blankets, she already has them stacked. And together, you'll stick it out, for the remainder of the storm. She breathes such a sigh of relief, and you stroke her hair, promising her, silently, that it's all okay.

Brittany, she's always prepared. You see the coolers on the kitchen floor, filled with the ice from your freezer and anything that will go bad—though you think, given how cold your apartment is without the heat, it would probably be fine anyway. Brittany, your wonderful wife, she already has layers for you laid out on the bed, and quickly, quickly, you change into them, ignoring the bite of cold, while she pulls on a clean sweatshirt, and watches you. That daylight, it's a good thing, but Brittany already has flashlights and candles and the battery-operated lantern strewn about the living room and ready for nightfall. You kiss her when you're dressed, you kiss her, and she plays with your hair. She's happy you're home, so happy, and you're just as happy too.

"Are you hungry? Do you want lunch?" She asks you, always, always wanting to take care of you.

"Grilled cheese and soup kind of day, isn't it?" You raise your eyebrows, and she shakes her head with a grin.

"For you, it's always a grilled cheese and soup kind of day. Will you. Will you light the stove for me though?"

"Of course not, c'mon, let's go make lunch together."

You're both glad for the gas stove as you turn it on and light a match over two burners. It's one of those things, the match lighting thing, that makes her nervous, and you know, you absolutely know why. She doesn't talk about it, she really doesn't talk about  _them,_ less now than ever, but you know that she worries, after years of being told she'll burn down the kitchen if she cooks. So you light it, and you pour the soup— from Fresh Direct, not from the Campbell's can— into a saucepan as she butters thick slices of bread and slices the Gouda she left out on the counter. She spreads blackberry jam between the slices— your compromise, when you like to eat kid food all the time, she can change it up a little. You work together, with occasional touches and smiles, no words necessary, until you've got soup in bowls, sandwiches on plates, and you're carrying them to the living room, prepared to bury yourselves under the blanket.

"It's nasty out there." You tell her, and she lets out a sigh.

"I know. Otis and I only made it to the corner when I took him out before, I'm just. I'm glad you're home, Santana."

"Me too." You kiss her. You kiss her, and you stroke her cheek, because you know she worries. "And I'm going nowhere until the power comes back on, and they clean the streets. So what do you want to do all day?"

"There are a few things I can think of." She laughs, and she pulls the thick comforter up, surrounding both of you. "But first, lunch."

The snow, it doesn't let up. Not while you eat. Not while you end up napping for two hours on the couch, Brittany's arms around you, never letting you go, though she never falls asleep herself. Not when you wake up, and you begin lighting candles, because it's gotten darker outside of the window, and it's really hard to see inside. But it's alright. Brittany, she makes more coffee, and you play Monopoly, killing a good chunk of daylight hours. And then, then it's dinner time, because you always eat early, and as she pours you a glass of wine, you just, look at her. You're sure she can see the hearts in your eyes. They're always pretty obvious, but you don't know why, but something about being in your quiet little upstairs apartment, where there's no background noise of heaters or electronics, or anything, really, beyond the wind outside and the occasional patter of ice on the window, it makes everything feel bigger, deeper, somehow. And your love for your wife, that's included, that's the most important of all.

"What?" She looks at you over the counter. Soft smile. Universe eyes. Her whole face bathed in the glow of a dozen candles lit there.

"Just love you." You say it, and you sign it too. Because that's mostly how you speak to her now, with both. Your fluency, it's improving in leaps and bounds. And you're glad for that, because, you've had a lot of thoughts in your head lately. Thoughts about needing to know how to help teach sign to someone else too, eventually, maybe. "And you look really pretty tonight."

"Santana." She casts her eyes down. You love that. You love it, how she's your wife. She wears the ring you bought her. She shares your name. But, you can still make her blush. You can still have this wonderful effect on her. And she has it on you too. "I. I didn't even take a shower before we lost the power this morning."

"So what?" You shrug, and Brittany, her face soft and adoring, she leans over and kisses you on the lips. "I don't think the water is what makes you beautiful."

"You're. You're just, too much." Her lips, she sucks them into her mouth, and you play with her fingers in the center of the counter. You twist her wedding band. You just, love her.

"For you, never."

She lets you make dinner, you know it's rare, since she loves to cook and you, really don't. But she's uncomfortable with the stove being lit with a match, and cooking in the low light, so you encourage her to sit. You encourage her to let you take care of her, and as you cook macaroni and cheese, the real kind, you tell her, with the bright orange cheese block that she doesn't make fun of you for buying, you catch her smiling at you, you catch her really, truly enjoying getting to watch you. When the food is done, you sit at the counter together, and you eat. As night falls, the temperature, it continues to drop, and you're glad you put on extra socks, you're glad Brittany put blankets in Otis' bed for him— though you know he'll sleep with you tonight, because you'll all need the warmth— and you're glad for the creamy macaroni and the wine, sticking to your bones, rushing through your veins.

Brittany's quiet. It doesn't surprise you. Even with the candles, even with you close by, even though she loves the snow, she hates storms. Snowstorms, rainstorms, all storms. She hates uncertainty, she loves her routine, she needs it. So while you feel safe and secure, with food and blankets, she still feels anxious, because she doesn't know when it will end, when your life will resume its normalcy. You text Jonas, just in case your phone dies. You ask him if he minds covering the whole show for you in the morning. Even if the storm lets up, you don't want to leave her. The power will probably still be out, and you just would rather be home with her. Once he texts you back, and you check in with your mom, who still has heat and power and food, though the storm is maybe worse in New York, you shut off the phone to conserve your battery. You put it away, and you come up behind Brittany, where she stands at the kitchen sink, trying to do the dishes without hot water. You come up behind her and you wrap your arms around her waist, you stand on your toes and you rest your chin on her shoulder. You feel her muscles, strung tight within her, and hold her, feeling them relax, just a little, in your embrace.

You stand like that for awhile, even after she turns the running water off, leaving the dishes to be cleaned properly when there's hot water again. You stand like that for awhile, just because you want to hold her and she wants to be held. You draw hearts on her sides, and she lays her hands over yours. You breathe in her ear, you let her feel the tickling breath, and you wait, you wait, until she doesn't feel so tense that she might snap in half. You wait until then, and you bring her away from the sink. You lead her to your bedroom, because you're fully set on distracting her, you're fully set on savoring this rare day where the world will give you no outside interruptions. Because as tumultuous as it looks outside the window, it's frozen your city, almost in time. It's encased you in your safe little upstairs apartment, and you want her to feel the same safety there that you do. You light the candles, bathing the whole room in soft firelight, and you watch her, you're always watching her, because she enchants you.

_No worrying._ You sign to her, when she sits down on the bed, and you stand before her.  _We're okay here._

She nods. She nods, and though those universe eyes have unshed tears inside, she believes you. She believes that you and her, you keep each other safe. She stocks the cupboards and piles blankets and warm clothes on the couch, and you, you touch her and kiss her and love her, because reassurance for Brittany, in this case, has no physical form. It's cold still, in your bedroom, but, it's okay. You have your own way of making heat. You have your own way of producing many things, when you're with your wife, and when you run your hands down her sides, she knows what you're doing. She raises her arms for you, she lets you pull her shirt from her body, and when goosebumps, they erupt on her torso, you pull her in for a searing kiss, you rub them away with the pads of your thumbs.

You're naked, both of you, quickly, quickly, because you can't waste time with the undressing, not when it's freezing inside. You're naked, and you lie on top of her, just, kissing her, letting your hands roam over her soft pale skin. You're covered with a white down blanket, not just your bodies, but your heads too. It's another one of those things, those things that make everything feel more intense. Because like the white snow that shuts you inside, this white blanket shuts you in your bed. In your bed, nothing else exists. Nothing but the two of you. Nothing but caressing fingertips, bruising kisses in filtered orange light. Your whole universe, underneath, is Brittany, Brittany. And you both exist in this moment, for no other reason but each other's pleasure, each other's love.

"Santana." She gasps, a breathy plea.

Your breasts, they press against hers, your lips, they kiss the shell of her ear. She's told you, shyly, a long time ago, how much she likes that, how much pleasure you give her just with that soft, brushing sensation, and you're sure to let her feel that, whenever you can. Your fingers, they scrape along her inner thighs, and you feel the inferno that comes from within her. You don't move your mouth to speak to her in return, but you make eye contact, you tell her without words,  _patience, patience, I've got you, I love you._

Her body, it trembles beneath your touch, and you suck the hollow of her throat, you feel her gasp again, because she knows, she knows your destination. She's desperate for you, but she knows, she knows, her patience will pay off. You move lower, you lave kisses over her collarbone, and she winds gentle fingers in your hair. She wants it off your face, she wants to see everything, and you smile into her skin, because this, the palpable presence of her want, it's everything to you. Her parted lips, her flushed skin, the little noises that escape her throat, they coil your insides, tight, tighter, until sometimes, you feel like you might snap without her even touching you. This woman, your wife, she's impossibly beautiful, impossibly sexy, and you know, you know, she feels it within herself to the fullest extent when you make love to her, and that, it's an amazing thing.

The path you make down her body, it lights up her skin. You swear, sometimes, that she glows when you do it. You swear, sometimes, as her fingers wind tighter in your hair, as the universe in her eyes grows blacker, blacker, preparing to burst open, that she actually emits her own light. It's in your head, you're sure, but it spurs you. It nudges you along as you take her nipple between your lips and she squeaks in response. It tugs you as you press her knees up, opening her fully to you and she hisses. It pushes you, as you breathe her in, all of her and she releases a long whine when you slide your hands beneath her body, and you bring her to your lips. Brittany like this, Brittany, unburdened, heaviness left behind, blonde hair fanned out on white sheets and eyes, those universe eyes, pleading as she moans and aches, it's radiance. There's no other word for it. Sheer radiance, in the bliss that overcomes your love.

"Santana, I—" The words, they die on her lips as her body arches up into you, as her thighs tense around your head, and they hold you there, they hold you to her, as waves of pleasure course through her entire body.

You don't stop looking in her eyes, not until they roll back, not until they close. That's when you always seek out her hand. You untangle it from your hair, and you take it in yours.  _I'm here, I'm here,_ you remind her with squeezes, when her world blacks out. Your tongue turns gentle, flat against her, it eases her down, it presses your every affection into her, until all at once, her tight strung body relaxes, and collapses against the pillows. She's beautiful like that. You wish, sometimes, that you had the ability to paint like she does. Because her body like that, her body after, it's art, truly, especially now, especially hidden from the outside beneath your blankets, especially when that filtered light makes everything ethereal.

"Sweetheart." You murmur it against her lips, letting her feel the vibrations of your endearment, after you crawl back up her body. She winds her arms around your neck, and she holds you there, she holds you close. She lets you feel the trembling aftershocks beneath her skin. And she kisses you. She kisses you deep and full of, just,  _everything_ there is to feel. It's your favorite part, the right after, when her eyes are still closed, when she's so soft and unguarded, when her body seems to melt into the bed, when she moans at her taste on your lips, and you breathe it all in, always.

Later, later, when you're both out of breath again, and you lie against her, your head finds its most natural place beneath her chin. She paints your skin with her fingers, hearts and spirals and lines. You listen to her heartbeat, slowing, slowing, back to its restful state. It's not late, not at all, you'd had dinner so early, and with the lingering effects of the two glasses of wine you had dissipating, you know you can't stay in bed for the rest of the night. You know you need to extinguish all the candles in the apartment, you know you need to at least blast your face with the bitter cold from the faucet, and wash up and brush your teeth. And most importantly, Otis needs to have dinner and go out. He's slept most of the day, with Brittany otherwise occupied inside, but, like his Brittany, he likes his routine, and you don't have to look at the bedside clock to know it's almost time.

"Have to get up." Brittany murmurs, words lazy, heavy on her tongue, just as you were thinking it, and you roll over up look at her. You're both still covered by the blanket, and you know, you know, the air is cold out there. You know it's going to hit you hard when you emerge. So you kiss her again, steeling yourself for the chilly blast of air.

"Stay." You tell her, and you draw the letters on her bare stomach.

She's sleep heavy, and she hates the cold more than you do, so you figure you can brave it just for an extra minute, you can grab more thick socks and flannel underclothes and heavy sweats. Because if she's going to brave the weather to walk with Otis, you'll brave it with her. Before she can object, you roll off the bed, feeling goosebumps erupt all over your bare body as you're hit with it. It's cold in your apartment, frigid, almost, without any heat, and you wrap a throw blanket around your whole self before going to the drawers. You're quick, quick, quick, grabbing all you need, and you turn around, you turn around to find Brittany's head peering out of the covers, watching you,  _her_ heart eyes visible too, in a way that makes your insides thrum.

You dress yourself quickly, and then, then, returning to the bed, you help to dress her, too. You don't know when you thought to start this, but, it's something you love to do, when she's still melted and sex-warm. To help her slide pants up her legs and arms in her sleeves. She always kisses you in places when you do it. Your nose. Your wrists. The inside of your elbows. It doesn't matter where, really, she just wants her lips on you somehow. And it's intimate, so intimate and intense, you have trouble describing it. But you know, you know it deep in your bones, that anyone can undress a person before sex, but it requires a great deal of trust to allow someone to _re-_ dress you after. And Brittany's trust, your  _wife's_ trust, that's something that was hard-earned and well worth every effort. She smiles, that lazy smile, when you finish, right down to her socks, and you kiss her lips again, letting it linger there, until you hear a low whimper from outside the closed bedroom door.

"Otis is making noise." You tell her. "I'm not sure if he's crying because he wants to go out, or he doesn't."

"He's the most snow-loving member of this family." She purses her lips as she looks out the window, where snow still pounds down in the darkness. You just, kiss those lips one more time, because even in the midst of a massive snowstorm, you're still reveling in your newlywed bliss. "You don't have to come Santana, it's terrible out there."

"Which is why I'll never let you go out there alone. I think it was in our wedding vows. To have and to hold, to walk with you outside in blizzards.'

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't there." She laughs a little, and you pull her to her feet.

"That's okay, Britt. We have a whole lifetime to add to it."

She doesn't disagree. She hasn't, since you'd begun this thing you do. She's even started adding things herself. You love it, truly. You want to promise her the world, and in those universe eyes, you see she wants to do the same for you. And so, you begin wrapping yourselves up to go outside, all the warm things you can find, hats and scarves and gloves and boots. You blow out the candles. But you turn on the battery-operated lantern, because Brittany, she won't want to walk into darkness, even with you close by. You leave it lit by the door, and you grab a flashlight, you grab her hand, and with Otis in his boots, you make your way downstairs, and out into the whipping wind, and the swirling snow. It's strange, really, this isolated world, even on the usually bustling streets outside. You won't be out long, you know, Otis will go quick, because he knows Brittany won't want to stay. For a moment of time though, even as ice bites your cheeks, and you pull Brittany's scarf up higher for her, rubbing her red nose with yours, it's beautiful, amidst the chaos. It's beautiful, because it's just you three. It's beautiful, because you have each other, come rain, come sun, come a dangerous storm that steals away your power, and you hold your wife just a little closer, because you always will.


	21. Which Shines Around Me Like a Million Suns

**Brittany**

Spring comes. Finally. Though winter was, it was full of some of the best days of your whole entire life, you're ready, really, for the end of the cold and the dark and the snow. You're ready to be outside. To paint in the park. To just, go to all your spots with Santana. Because you love her, you love her, but. Being shut up in the house constantly, even together, loses a little of its luster after you hardly see the light of day for so long. But. But the snow, it's melted, the grass is green, and, there are flowers, flowers everywhere. She's been anxious for it too, you think, she's got all these things she wants to do, and, her excitement. It's your favorite. When she rambles on, a mix of spoken word and sign and crinkle eyed smiling, it's your very favorite. You picture little Santana, and, you still love that there's so much of her that  _your_ Santana has held onto.

It's the first weekend of May, and you're getting ready for the strawberry festival in Peddler's Village. For all the long cold winter days you'd had, you're having just as many gorgeous spring ones, and Santana, Santana she. She wants to take the most advantage of them. She's already pulled out her shorts and tank tops, and, you're definitely not complaining about that. She's beautiful, beautiful, like, you're-still sort-of-convinced-she's-unreal kind of beautiful. And you stand at the mirror, sort of trying to pull your hair back, but— but Santana, she's pulling dark denim shorts up her legs, slowly, so slowly that you swear, she does it on purpose. You swear, she likes to make you squirm, all tan legs and toned stomach, in, in half a pair of shorts and a black bra. And then she smirks. She  _smirks,_ and you roll your eyes back at her in the mirror. Because your wife, you love her, and she's gorgeous, but, she's also a little bit of a jerk. Particularly when you're both getting ready in the mornings, particularly when she's intentionally trying to draw it out, because— Okay, well, maybe she's not really a jerk then. Because, because you only have these get ready mornings twice a week, and, actually, it's sort of sweet.

"Are you going dressed like that, then?" You purse your lips, when she just stands there. And she waits. She waits for you to turn around. Because maybe, maybe, other people can read lips or sign in the mirror— you don't know, you don't know other deaf people, really— but you can't process it fast enough, and. And Santana. She just. She. She always tries to make it easiest for you to understand what she's saying.

_I don't think it's that kind of festival._ She slips her arms around your waist, and you laugh. You don't know why you do. But. Her presence still makes you giggly sometimes, it fills your heart up with too much energy, and that's the only way you can get it out.  _Mardi Gras next year?_

"That seems terrible." You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, and then she laughs. She laughs because you know it does for her too. Because the way you dislike crowds and shoving, she dislikes excess, and, and people, just, wasting things.

_Yes it does._ She kisses your lips, she plays with you hair, and. You trail your hands over the warm skin of her sides.  _I think I could manage to put a shirt on so we can stick to this. As long as you promise to take it off later._

"Oh, is that the deal then?" Your eyebrow shoots up, but, you can't hide the way the corners of your mouth twitch. She strokes her thumb over your cheek, and you smile, you smile fully. "I think I can agree to those terms."

_I figured you would._ Santana, she slips out of your arms again, and she pulls her shirt over her head, wiggling a little bit. Solely for your benefit. And you eat it up, you always do.

It's a long drive to the festival, but, you really love those drives with her. It's like, when you met her, this whole other world opened up to you, and, even nearly two years later, you're still absorbing it all. You're still, drinking in your fill of the things she offers you. It's. It's just, you don't have the words, really, but, she gets it. And she enjoys it too. Taking you places you've never been. You catch her watching you out of the corner of her eye as you leave the city. You catch her watching Otis look out the window. You catch her dimpled smile. Her crinkled eyes. And she doesn't have to write the words on your thigh for you to understand it. You know, you know, you know. Inside your heart. What she's saying with her face.  _I love making you happy._ And probably. Because she's her. Maybe a  _Sweetheart._ For good measure.

Santana, she's very cute about things like this. You noticed this, almost immediately after you'd met, but it's only been amplified since then. Your wife, your beautiful, wonderful wife, has on a red shirt. And you know, though no one else would guess, that it's because of the strawberries. She likes themes, and matching actually— which explains yours— she likes sentimental things, like funnel cake at festivals and saving ticket stubs and coasters in a shoe box. You'd found it, not long after she'd moved in with you, her box. And your girl, she'd ducked her head sheepishly. But, it's the most endearing thing you've ever seen. Her excitement, it makes  _you_ excited too. It makes you want to push yourself outside of your comfort zone, and the way you've grown, the way you hide from the world less, it's the greatest gift she could have ever given to you.

The festival, it's far more crowded than either of you had expected, really, even so early in the day. It takes awhile for her to find parking. And then, when you get out, Santana and Otis, they flank you. In crowds, Santana doesn't just hold your hand. She wraps an arm around your waist. She pulls you into her. She tickles your side with her fingertips. She reminds you, she reminds you always, that she's there. She's warm from the spring sun against you. You breathe her in. You wrap your arm around her waist too. You've been married four months, but still, still, this feeling, her as your wife, her, leading you under a tent to look at pints of strawberries to take home, it sends chills down your spine.

"These look really, really good." You tell her, as you look through the brightest red berries you've ever seen. "I think we should get a lot. We could freeze them too. Use them for smoothies for you to take to work."

_You're going to get up even earlier and make smoothies now?_ She purses her lips, and you know, it's to hide the hint of a smile. Taking care of her, in those little ways you do, it will never not be special. You're sure of that. You're just, you're truly a nurturer. And, you guess having someone who lets you just, who lets you exercise that need, it fulfills a different part of you.

"Maybe." You shrug, grinning, and she kisses you over the table.

_I was actually hoping maybe you wanted to teach me how to make a strawberry pie._

"You want to learn that?"

_Yeah, I think I do. I mean, you'd be teaching me, which is always a plus. And I'd like to be able to cook more things anyway, since you're the kitchen wizard._

"Hardly." You giggle a little, the tips of your ears burning. "So you want to go from being able to cook grilled cheese to baking pies?"

_Hey, lies, I know how to make more than just grilled cheese._

"Okay, fair. You can also make macaroni and cheese."

_And waffles. You know I make the best waffles._

"I do, actually. That's why I married you. I wanted to be guaranteed Santana Lopez waffles every Saturday morning for the rest of my life. You've yet to disappoint." You love to tease her about those waffles. Because, they really are delicious, but, the way she defends them, it's really cute. She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts a little, but you don't. You don't let her stay that way. You uncross them, and you take her hands. You squeeze them, and you rub your thumbs over her wrist bones. "You're also very cute. And I'll teach you to make all the strawberry pie you want."

You eat strawberries in more ways that you could ever imagine. Strawberry ice cream, strawberry shortcake, strawberry jam, strawberry fritters, chocolate covered strawberries. You're not actually sure that's a requirement, to try everything, but Santana, she's insistent upon it, and you share each paper plate with her. You kiss powdered sugar off her nose. You kiss her red-stained lips. You feed Otis fresh berries beneath the picnic table. When you're done, you have to walk some of the food off. When you're done, you go to look at the work of some of the artists who've set up booths. Because you paint, yourself. But. You're also completely fascinated by the work other people do. Santana, she admires the paintings with you. She admires the beadwork with you, and, though you've both bought each other jewelry before, rings included, the way she beams at you when you slip the glass bead bracelet she'd been admiring onto her wrist. It just. Makes your heart flutter in all kinds of ways.

It's only mid-afternoon when you head back to the city. You're glad you came early, because the crowds, they just, sort of become unbearable as the day progresses. And you're both happy to go, really. On the way home, Otis sleeps in the backseat, his head against the window, tired from all the activity you've been doing lately, since you'd really shut yourself in for the winter. You're a little tired too, but you won't sleep. Not in the car. You really enjoy your road trips with Santana. After your day, you have enough strawberries to feed a large family packed in your trunk— and you know Santana, she's so good, she'll bring some to Mr. Shapiro later on— and you'd bought four different flavors of vinegar and a pretty new wooden salad bowl. Your cheeks, they're red from the sun, but you're content. Really content. You love the springtime. And most importantly, you love your wife, and spending whole days with her. Something you tell her with a kiss to the inside of her palm. Something she replies to with a quick glance and a crinkle-eyed smile.

Parking is harder than usual to find, a testament, you figure, to everyone being out doing warm weather things. Santana, she double-parks in front. So you can bring things upstairs, and then, look again. You get back in the car. Because, you figure, a walk home, and maybe some dinner will be nice, since. Since she says she's not all full of strawberries, and you're hungry for actual food. You're walking, hand in hand, after agreeing on burgers. Walnut Street is busy, kids on scooters. Other couples, swinging their hands, just like you are. But it's a good busy, not an overwhelming busy, and you watch the people, you think how much you like to paint things like this. You're distracted, and then, suddenly. Santana, she just stops, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Otis turns, and gives her a sort of side eye. She looks incredibly excited, like she might start hopping, and she steps in front of you, grabbing your other hand.

_Britt, do you wanna go in and look? Just for fun?_

"What? Go in where?" Your brow furrows. You look around, and. She points to the sign reading  _Open House._

_I mean, that's got to be a million-dollar townhouse, but, we could just go see it. I mean, you know, if you're not really starving for dinner, right this minute._

"Yeah, of course, if you want to go in, let's go in." You nod. Her excitement about real estate, you've seen it before, but. That's the beautiful thing about Santana Lopez. You just. You still learn new things. Nearly every day.

Bringing Otis in, you're nervous. You hate that you get this way, but, you don't handle it well when you have to explain yourself. You stammer, and, people have a hard enough time understanding you anyway. But Santana, she's good. She's so much better than she even knows. Rarely, rarely, does she speak for you. She doesn't steal away your voice, just because it takes you longer to process. When she knows though. When she knows you're uncomfortable, she looks to you for permission to speak on your behalf. She waits for your nod. She signs the whole exchange for you, in case the discussion moves too quickly. And, it makes you love her more. Without fail. She does that with the broker. She smiles at you the whole time, and you think about things. You think about a lot of things, watching her.

Santana talks to the broker for a few minutes. Then you walk through the place. You watch as your wife excitedly points out granite countertops and walk-in closets, and the little outside patio that she stands on for a good five minutes. It's beautiful. Really. You know nothing about real estate, but you can definitely enjoy the view of the park and the state of the art kitchen. You know it's mega-expensive. Like, more than Santana had even estimated it at. But still. It's fun to look. Especially when you remember Santana's beach house stories. It shouldn't surprise you, really, that she has an interest in this, in looking at big homes. And you feel a new sort of fluttering in your heart. When you realize. You realize that now when she pictures her imaginary castles, she pictures them with you. It hits you, almost immediately, and, alone in the big master bathroom, you just. You pull her to you, and you give her a quick, soft kiss.

_What was that for?_ She asks, smiling. Smiling hard.

"Do I need a reason to kiss my wife?" You shrug. But you think, you think, she sees it in your eyes. Her ability to read you, it's surreal.

_You don't. And I definitely love when you do._

You finish looking at the place. You're making your own castles, maybe. And you both wave at the realtor as you leave. It's too big. It's too expensive. This place. But. Santana, she has wheels turning in her brain, you can tell even without looking at her. You can tell, simply by the way she holds your hand. It makes you anxious. A little. Not in a bad way, though. Just. In a desperate-to-sit-down-and-know-what-she's-thinking-about kind of way. Because you have a feeling, a big feeling, that the conversation you'll have might just be one of those ones that— that alters your lives again. In a very big way.

Once you're seated at your table outside, Santana orders two glasses of Chardonnay right away. You settle Otis under the table, filling his water bowl for him, and scratching behind his ears. When you lift your head back up, those fire eyes, they're on you. She's squinting, a little, in the sinking sun. But. They're burning with all she has to say. They're burning into you. In the center of the table, you find her hand, and you cover it with both of yours. It makes her smile. It always does, something about the security of it, you think, and she takes her other and places it into the pile.

_Hi, Sweetheart._ The corners of her mouth, they turn up. It's your thing, saying hi to each other, even when you've been together all day, and you tickle your fingers where they rest on her wrist.  _Did you have a nice day?_

"I did. I'm glad we went to the festival. And. And that open house, too…"

_It was a really nice place. I, Britt, I've been kind of starting to think about some things. Well, no, actually. I've always been thinking about these things. But now I've been thinking about them more seriously. Stop me if I start talking too fast, okay?_

"Of course."

_I just, I know that place was really big and really expensive, but I saw the sign, and I thought maybe it would be a starting point for us to, to talk about these things._ She pauses. She looks into your eyes. She— she's reading you. And she waits, she waits for you to nod before she continues.  _When I was six, I started saving change I found on the street, on the subway floor. The silver money, I would use it to buy presents for my mom, on her birthday, on Christmas, on Mother's Day. You know, just, little knick-knacks. You've probably seen that little glass heart that's on the kitchen windowsill at her house. I paid three dollars and twenty-five cents for it, all in change._

"I have seen it." You blink your eyes a lot. Because, the little Santana stories, the ones about her and her mom, they give you a lump in your throat, every time. Because maybe they sound sad. But they're magic, especially to her. And when she shares them, she's entirely overcome with gratitude and awe, always.

_Anyway, that's totally not even the point of this story. The point is, I spent all the silver money, but I kept the pennies, because I knew you needed a lot of them to add up to anything. I saved them in an empty soda bottle and I kept it under my covers with me at night, until after I graduated from college, and by that point I had three-thousand-seventy-six pennies. That's what I opened my savings account with, with thirty dollars and seventy-six cents. But, I always knew, even as a kid, that the thing I was saving for was a house of my very own. One that no one could ever kick me out of, one that my Mama could come live in, if she wanted to._

"Santana." You feel the urge to reach up and touch her cheek. When she looks so earnest like that, all you want to do is wrap her in your arms, all you want to do is make all of her dreams come true.

_I've been saving and saving. And since I moved in with you, I've been saving even more. That, this, this dream that I've had my whole life to have a place that was really, truly mine, it hasn't died, I've kept it in my sight, always. Except, now that I have you, I want it to be a place that's really truly both of ours. I love our apartment, and I know it'll be a huge thing, finding something we like, and that we can afford. And then, it'll be an adjustment when we do. But, I've been thinking about this for twenty-three years, and now, I'm just, thinking about it in a whole new way._

"Honey. Why didn't you tell me about it sooner?"

_I don't know. I mean, I guess a felt kind of ridiculous at first, because who's been saving for a house since they were six? And I know you're really comfortable where we are. Plus, I'm a little weird about money. I mean, we've been living together for over a year, and married for months. I've been putting off combining our accounts, but it's not because_ — _"_

"Wait, sorry. Can you just slow down a tiny bit?" You ask her, and when she looks down, you stroke her cheek to bring her back up. You'd seen everything she said, but, you can tell the direction she's headed in, her words starting to slur together as she gets anxious. And you want to calm her, you want to understand all of what she's saying. Because it's important. "There is nothing in any of this you need to second guess yourself about. It's not silly, because having a place to live is something you worried about growing up. And the same with money, I understand why you're cautious with it. I'm happy to do all that married people banking stuff when or if it's something you want to do, but we're managing just fine the way we have been."

_I love you._ Her face, it softens. The softest kind of soft. The way she gets when you're in bed together, and. You blush. You blush because when she looks at you that way, it feels so, so intimate. Like it shouldn't even be allowed in a public place. And her eyes crinkle. Because she knows, she knows. She knows what she does to you. She doesn't do it purposely. She's just,  _her,_ but she knows. She still knows that she burns you deep into your heart. She burns you, all the way to your toes. With one single look.

"I love you, too." You wonder, sometimes, what you sound like out loud. You wonder if she hears your voice, soft as your face. More like brushing kisses and fluttery eyelashes, even, than words. Maybe that's unreasonably romantic. Maybe that's old-silent-movie-type thoughts. But. That's what you imagine, in your head, that you sound like, sometimes. And you wonder, you wonder if those emotions translate for her.

_Okay, so._ She lifts her chin high. You see. She's trying to collect herself. You like lists, you like order. And Santana, when she's making big decisions, she likes to keep her emotions in check.  _Sorry, I'm just getting all…I don't know. What I'm saying is, I do want to, Britt. I want to do that grown-up married people banking stuff with you. You're my wife, there's no one else in the world that I trust like I trust you_ — _my mother aside_ — _and, I want to buy a house with you, if that's something you want to do with me too. I mean, not that big expensive place we saw today, but, maybe something still here in Rittenhouse_ —

"You're talking fast again." You lean over, and you kiss her lips. You run your hands down her arms, you watch her relax. "But I do want that, Santana. I never. I didn't. I just, it wasn't my dream, ever. To own a house. I figured I'd live in our apartment for as long as Mrs. Webster would let me. Maybe forever. With you though, things I never imagined feel like they could have been my dream all along. With you, I'd really like to buy a house. One that's all ours. One that you've been saving for since you were six, and one that puts the money in my savings account, that I've been putting there just because, to— to the best kind of use."

_Really?_

"Yeah, really." You find yourself reaching up to wipe tears from your face. You don't know why, fully. Maybe it's the image you can't get out of your head. The image of your wife as a little girl. Saving up pennies in an empty bottle. Counting them. Waiting, waiting, until she had enough money to buy her very own house. Or maybe, maybe, it's the image of the future. You and her and— and every opportunity, every dream, just, open there, for the taking. For you and Santana, to take on, together.


	22. Bring Me No More Blues

**Santana**

Throughout the spring and into the summer, you begin your house-hunting in earnest. It's far more exhausting than you had ever expected, finding something in your price range, finding something that suits you both, finding something that isn't going to require months worth of work. Both you and Brittany scour every real estate website there is, you sit outside in the park on Sundays with the newspaper, passing the ads back and forth. You go to open houses and showings, for more houses than you ever imagined were for sale in your neighborhood. Brittany e-mails you listings while you're at work, and Jonas jokes that he's going to make an announcement on air, if you don't find something soon. It's a lot of work, but, it's also a lot of fun. You've waited almost your whole life for this moment. You've waited to be able to have a place of your own. And you've waited, though you never knew you were waiting for it, to have someone you could share this experience with. To have Brittany.

It's the last Friday of July. You've been lucky, really, with the weather. It's been an incredibly mild summer, and it drizzles a little, as you drive home from work. You're picking up Brittany from home. She has an appointment with her neurologist. An annual visit, just, years of follow-up after her brain injury, nothing to be worried about, she promises you. But it's the first time she's ever asked you to come. You remember last year, when she'd purposely scheduled her appointment while you were at work, and then slept the whole afternoon, so you have to admit to yourself that you're a little worried. And you know she is too, despite her words to you. She's been exceptionally quiet. She's been restless in bed all week. She's been making lists, lots of them. About everything from what she wants to do for the remainder of the summer to all the things you'll have to do once you find a place you want to buy. And you hate it, because when she works herself into this frenzy, there's nothing you can do to calm her down.

Rather than send her a text that you're outside, you park across the street, and you go upstairs. You feel like you need to. You feel like you can't properly…anything, if she just comes down to the car, and you want to, you need to. You're not nervous about the appointment. You're just nervous about  _her._ Because Brittany, the love of your life, your wife, she's her own worst enemy sometimes. And you hate that. You hate that a lot. So you go upstairs. You go into your apartment, and you find her scrubbing the kitchen sink, with her shoes on. She never wears shoes in the house. Neither of you do. It's one of her things, and you've always been respectful of that. Otis, he alerts her of your arrival, but she doesn't stop what she's doing, she hardly notices his nudge, and when you slip your sneakers off and come up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist, she jumps.

"God Santana, you scared me." She snaps, and then her shoulders slump, as she turns to face you. "I— I'm—"

"It's okay," you tell her, before she apologizes. You see it in her eyes, and you kiss her forehead and stroke her arms, her soapy gloved hands dripping on the floor. "I'm really sorry I scared you, Sweetheart."

"I'm sorry I'm being such a. Such a. A jerk."

"Hey, it's okay." You bring your right pointer to your lips, and then press the flat of your palm against your balled left hand.  _Promise._

"It's not, though." She shakes her head, pulling her gloves off and tossing them in the sink.

"Britt, come sit with me a minute, talk to me." You suck your lips into your mouth, you're worried about her. You hear the unshed tears in her throat, and your stomach drops at the sound. She nods, slowly, and she follows you to the couch, resting her hands on your knees.

"I. I get like this every year." Brittany bites her bottom lip, and you place your hands over hers. "Two years ago, we'd just started seeing each other, and, I don't know if you remember, but I went kind of. Kind of missing. For a few days."

"I." You think on it for a minute, and you know what she's talking about. "I guess I didn't think much of it, since we were so new. And you still returned my texts, even though we didn't see each other."

"Yeah. I really, I really cared about you, even then. So I didn't want you to think I was…not interested, but I needed my space. Last year. I just, tried really hard to not be like this, but I know you noticed. And you're just so good. Santana. You always give me space when I need it."

"I try, Honey. But, I do wish you'd let me in, let me share things like this with you. To make it easier on you."

"That's what. It's what I'm trying to do. Now. This year. You're my wife, and. And the things I'm scared of, they affect you, too."

"Tell me what it is that makes you feel so afraid. Tell me what it is, so I can make it better."

"It's." She draws in a long breath. Her eyes, those universe eyes, they're dark and stormy again. They're full of fear. Of uncertainty. Of this deep, unshakeable sadness. A sadness you swear you'll spend your whole life trying to rid her of. "When I was fourteen, the doctor started speaking to me like an adult. My mom, she. She told them I wasn't ready for it, that I— that I wasn't smart enough to understand. She didn't know, though. That I already did. That I had to get my brain checked every year. Because. Because it's always possible that. That there could be— Problems. As I get older. And every year, I just, I get so scared that this year. That…I don't know, that I, I'm going to die. Or start forgetting things. Or. I just. I forget about it most of the time. But, what would I do, if Dr. Thomas told me today that in six months—" A sob, it hiccups out of her. It ripples through her body. "That I won't. Remember you."

"Brittany. Come here." You open your arms and you pull her into them, rocking her with your body, kissing the top of her head. Just being there. These fears she has, you know they're mostly unfounded. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't done your own research about the long term effects of traumatic brain injuries. And you know, she knows they're mostly unfounded, too. But the human mind is weird. It goes to the darkest, scariest places it can find, at the drop of a hat. So they might be unfounded, but that doesn't mean they're not valid, and you hold her, you let her cry, because you're pretty sure that letting it all out, it's the best thing she can do.

"I'm being so stupid." She mumbles into your neck, once the crying stops, and she sort of just lies limp against you. Gently, you maneuver her body so she's looking at you, and you wipe away her tears with your thumbs. "It's the fastest my brain works, you know. When it's finding things to be afraid of."

"It's not stupid, Sweetheart. It's how you feel, and that's okay. But I'm here with you, always, no matter what."

"You're just always having to reassure me of stuff. I hate that." Her lower lip protrudes, and you kiss it. "I'm just having a down day."

"I know you are. Which is  _why,_ Otis and I made us big plans for tonight."

"Santana. I." She struggles a little, finding her words, and she sighs. "I think I'll be too tired to do much of anything. I haven't. I haven't really been sleeping, and all the brain stuff they make me do there."

"Oh, I know." You smile, just a little. "That's why we figured takeout, cuddling right here on this couch, and maybe a movie, if you're up to it."

"That sounds really good. It's been awhile since we've done that on a Friday night,"

"Well someone has been planning these date nights all over Philadelphia. I wonder who that might be." You tease, and she leans in to kiss you again. "Britt, it's going to be okay. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I do, I think. I mean. I. I know you're here with me, so. That. It does make it a little bit easier."

"Partnership, Mrs. Lopez. That's what you and I do best."

"We are pretty good at it." She sniffles a little. "Let's just. Let's go, so then. Then it's over."

She holds your hand in the car, tighter than she usually does. Otis refuses to get in the back seat, instead, choosing to curl up beneath her feet. She's okay with that. She knows he's safe there, and she feels safer too, holding tightly to him. Her doctor's office isn't far, but since she told you that it's draining on her, probably more from the stress and overstimulation than anything, you drive, rather than walk. In the office, she signs in, and then she fills out new papers. Papers with her new name, papers that change her marital status. It makes her smile, and that, that you're really glad for. When she's finished, she rests her head on your shoulder, and you play with her hair, stroking it, braiding it out of her face, kissing her temple as you do. She's calm, as calm as she can be, by the time the doctor comes out and steps in front of her, alerting her of his presence. She stands up, and you follow her head, watching her interaction.

"Hi, Dr. Thomas." You hear her try not to mumble, though she struggles with that, she always does, when she speaks to anyone but you.

"Nice to see you again, Brittany." He looks down at her chart, then back up at her. He speaks at a good pace for her, he looks in her eyes. "I see you changed your last name. Do you have some news to share?"

"I. I do. This. Santana." She stumbles over her words, and you run your thumb over the inside of her wrist. "I'm sorry. This is my wife, Santana Lopez."

"It's very nice to meet you, Santana." He's warm. He smiles, and she shakes your hand. "Brittany, are you ready to come inside?"

"Yeah. Can she— Can she come with me?"

"Of course. And then she and Otis can hang out in in our private back room, while you get your MRI done."

When you get into the exam room, Brittany has to let go of your hand. But as you take your seat across from her, never tearing your eyes away from her, Otis remains close by. Otis remains, giving her a place to rest her fidgeting fingers. While she talks to Dr. Thomas, she tries to keep herself calm, so she doesn't stutter and start. She hates that, you know she does, and even with the doctor, her skin flushes, and her ears burn, whenever she repeats a word or has to stop in the middle of a sentence to gather her thoughts. But he's patient with her, and he's gentle, giving her time between each test in the series he does, checking her brain function, checking her cognitive ability. It's strange, really, for you, seeing how he charts her coordination, her fine motor skills. Because you don't think of her abilities in numbers. You don't think she lacks in anything. You don't think of her as disabled, not because of her deafness, not because of her brain injury. She's just Brittany, just the woman you love, just so incredibly special as she is.

They finish up with the tests, while you sit, quietly, watching. She's tired already, you can tell, but she does give a small smile to you, when Dr. Thomas tells her she's done great. You love this woman, really, she's something else with the way she puts on a brave face, even when you know she'd rather do anything but. Even when you know she'd rather curl into a ball and sleep for several days. Brittany, she loves her shell, but when she has to, she leaves it far behind. When she has to, she holds her head high, knowing, when it's all over, she'll have it back, and she'll have you to hold her, too. Before she goes back to have her MRI done, the doctor gives her a few minutes. The imaging, it's something she'd confessed to you days ago that she hates more than anything, because she feels trapped, and because she can't hear, she has  _no_ idea what's going on around her. So you scratch her lower back, you kiss the sensitive spot below her ear, and you promise her, you promise her, it'll all be over soon, and you and Otis, you'll be here waiting.

"It's okay, buddy." You assure Otis, when he lies his head on thigh and whimpers a little. You have her medical bracelet around your wrist, and her wedding ring on your finger, keeping them safe for her, and you rub his neck. "It's totally okay."

Brittany comes out, nearly an hour later, and you think, outside of the time she had the flu last summer, you've never seen her look so entirely wiped out. Her eyes are glassy, and she mumbles to you about how glad she is that she doesn't have to do that for another year. Stress is exhausting, and it's sucked the color out of her face. But she's okay, she's totally okay. Dr. Thomas told her that she's had no change in brain function over the past year, and when she fits herself into your arms when she come out, the heaviness you'd felt before the appointment, it's missing. She's tired, completely, but there's a relief for her, such a relief, getting that confirmation she'd needed. There's a relief, knowing at another year's mark, that her worst fears aren't coming true.

"I love you so much." She tells you in the car, once, twice, three times, and you draw the same letters onto the bare skin of her thigh, just below the hem of the running shorts she'd wore to the appointment. "I know. I know you do. Thank you."

You get back to your apartment, and Brittany gets the the shower. You get that, wanting to wash off a doctor's visit, and while she's in there, you change out of your work clothes, and you put new sheets on the bed. That's  _your_ favorite thing, when you've had a rough day, and since she's always quick to oblige that desire, you want to do the same for her. She comes out, just as you're spreading the comforter back over, and she hugs you from behind. Her chin rests on your shoulder, and her whole body seems to hum with contentment. That contentment, it seeps into you, too. It melts the tension you hadn't felt building in your muscles. This is your first time, but for Brittany, it's another year in a long line of years. It's the end of another set of stressful days, and you take both of her hands in yours. You lace your fingers together, and you just, stand there, and she leans into you, as she breathes in your ear, as she holds you, close as she can.

"Sometimes, I forget what it was like, doing things before you." She tells you. It takes you a minute to comprehend the words, because she's tired, and they're not totally clear. Once you realize, though, what she'd said, you turn in her embrace, and you kiss her, slow, full of the all the things you want her to know. You look in her universe eyes, clearing from the storm, and you smile. You smile at her, you smile  _for_ her.

"So do I." You nod, because it's true, it's so true. She shares your heart, she shares your secrets, she shares your life. "But you're stuck with me now, Sweetheart."

"And there isn't anyone else I'd ever want that more with."

You lie down with her, she lies on her side at first, she talks to you about your day at work, she talks to you about the new series of books she just signed a contract for. She talks to you about houses, about going down to Queens before baseball season is over, because she knows you're dying to see a game on your own turf. Otis gets up on the bed, and he nuzzles her, glad she's calm, glad she's safe. And then she yawns, she yawns because she's so exhausted, and she stops talking when she curls into you. You feel her breathing slow against her chest, as her cheek presses against your heart. You feel your heart swell, like it always does, with love. You think it must be so big inside of you, really, because it's always swelling, but that's okay. This feeling, you're happy with it, you'll always be. While she rests, you resume the house hunt. Zillow has become your best friend, and you scour the listings in your price range. There's nothing new, but you're still hopeful. Because this dream, this lifelong dream of yours, your wife has embraced it with you so fully, she's put aside all her hesitations about stepping out of her comfort zone, and somehow, it makes you want it even more than you ever have. It'll all be there later though, the houses, the dreams. So now, tossing your phone aside, you wrap Brittany up in your arms, you nuzzle your face into her hair, and you close your eyes too. You rest with her, because right now, it's the most important thing in the world.


	23. Birthday Greetings, Bottle Of Wine

**Brittany**

Though you hadn't known what to expect of this, the house hunt is definitely taking far longer than you really thought possible. Wanting a little break from it, Santana took the last week of August off, and you did a little bit of local travel together. A night down at her mom's in Queens, where you finally got to see  _her_ team play, and she'd put a Mets hat on your head and kissed beer from your lips. Two days in Lancaster, because you'd casually mentioned once that you were fascinated by the Amish way of life, and because she was dying for good pickles. The weekend in Cape May that you'd planned, since you know how much she loves the beach, and it's nice for her to really be able to relax and not worry about driving back. You'd be lying if you said neither of you checked your phones for new listings. But. It was time away from thinking about it. Constantly, really. It was time for just the two of you, and Otis, who'd taken the moving around in stride. Much like you. Since you were both expanding your comfort level. You were growing in leaps and bounds. Still.

It was hard for you to believe that fall had come. Another season passed. Another season beginning. You watch Santana wrap herself in scarves for the morning chill. You kiss her nose for extra warmth, you tell her, before she leaves the house. You still wear shorts on your runs, but after you shower and head over to the park to paint, you pull on sweatshirts and jeans. The leaves. They begin to change. Subconsciously, you begin using more reds and orange in your work. And you love the coziness of it all. You love Santana in sweaters and fuzzy socks. You love her driving you out of the city on starry nights and lying on the hood of her car, her head resting on your shoulder. Your fingers knotted together. If someone had told you that at thirty-two, this is where you'd be, you wouldn't have believed them. You'd have assumed you'd still be where you were at twenty-two, twenty-five, twenty-eight. But. It's been nearly two and a half years since your world turned upside down. And you still find yourself pinching under your arm to make sure it's real.

Santana is turning thirty. She teases you and calls you  _old lady_ whenever you talk about it. And you kiss her, you kiss her and you pin her to the bed, reminding her, in all the ways you know, that you're most certainly still young. Santana is turning thirty, and you're not sure what exactly you want to do for it. You twist the silver chain around your neck, the one she'd bought you for  _your_ thirtieth birthday, when you'd only been dating for a few months, and you worry over it. You want to do something special for her, except you're not quite sure just what that something is.

It takes you a few days, but you finally decide to invite Maribel down. You know that this is a big milestone for her, too, and it just— it feels strange to leave her out. Thirty years ago, she'd made a choice that changed her life. Thirty years ago, she'd sacrificed everything she had. Thirty years ago, she'd brought the woman you love into the world. And. Though Santana lets you make your secret plans. You know she wants her to be a part of this, too.

You wake up earlier than normal on her birthday. You wake her up, too, though she grumbles and groans that it's too early. You pry her out of bed with kisses. With  _I love you'_ s _._ With all the  _happy birthday'_ syou can speak. You get in the shower with her, and you make her early start time entirely worth it. You leave her to get dressed, a goofy smile plastered across both of your faces, and you make coffee. You fill her thermos up, and you leave a love note for her under the metal top, scrawled with balloons and confetti, because you can. You pack her the raspberry muffins you know are her favorite. You kiss her goodbye, slipping your hands up under her sweater and scratching her lower back. You tell her you'll see her in a few hours, and she's all crinkle eyes and dimples when she walks out the door.

It's a Friday. You're glad it's a Friday. Date night— well, modified date night. And her birthday combined into one. You have a lot to do, before she gets home. Before Maribel gets in. So you clean. You change the sheets, you make the bed. You scrub the bathroom, and you set up the air mattress in the office. Otis follows you around, until you tell him it's okay, you're not frenzied, you're just. You're busy, preparing, and he lays down to rest. You make her birthday cake. It's taken a lot of coaxing, but, she'll finally accept that you can make that funfetti cake that she's obsessed with. Without using the box. While it's in the oven, you hang streamers. You hang the big banner that you'd painted and hid away weeks ago. You and Otis walk, while the cake cools. You pick up balloons and flowers. You just. You want this to be really special. You know it's just a birthday, but. Santana. She loves things like this. You know, you know. Maribel, she'd done everything she could to make her daughter's birthday special. Even when she had no money. So. By making it special too, you sort of. You feel like you're carrying on the tradition.

At nine forty-five, the red light above your door flashes, and Otis jumps up from his resting spot. You've got frosting up to your elbows, but you toss the spatula in the bowl, and you, you wipe your hands and forearms on a towel. You open the door, and your mother-in-law, she doesn't say a single word, before she wraps her arms around you. Before she engulfs you in a hug. These hugs. This genuine love you get from your wife's mother. You're not sure either of them realize just. Just how much it means to you. They know it means a  _lot._ The actual level though, you think it's beyond even your comprehension. It's been nearly a year since. Since you've spoken to your parents. They haven't tried, and you— you won't, because the years of buildup and then, then the final rejection, it. It hurt too much. It  _still_ stings sometimes. So Maribel Lopez's hugs. Her frequent text messages and just because cards in the mail. Her genuine acceptance of you. It reminds you. It reminds you when you need the reminder most, that you  _do_ have a family. That you're Brittany Lopez now, and that's more than enough.

_Brittany, honey, everything looks great._ She surveys the apartment when she walks in, ruffling Otis' fur, and giving him the affection he loves. She approves, and, you beam at the compliment.

"Thank you Maribel. I just. I. I wanted it to look nice for Santana when she gets home. I know it's. It's kind of silly because we aren't having a party. But, it's a big birthday."

_Hard to believe it's been thirty years since the day she was born._ Maribel waves her hand, as if brushing off her own thoughts. And you can't help but take her hand in yours. Because. Because your gratitude to her, you're filled with it.  _But you don't want to hear my old stories._

"I'm always happy to hear them, whenever you want to tell them." You smile at her, and, she gives you her soft smile in return. The one Santana inherited from her. The one you love, so much.

_You're such a good girl, Brittany, really. I'll save them for later, maybe. Santana was always pretty fond of her birthday story, too._

"I'll bet." You know it. The story about how it snowed in October. How Santana was nearly born in the waiting room of the hospital, while a young and scared Maribel tried to get the attention of the receptionist. You know how she let out a wail that could wake the dead when she came out, but that she was quiet, content, when the nurse put her in her mother's arms. You know about the doctor that insisted that both mother and baby needed to be kept for further observation, because it was cold, and he knew they were headed for a shelter. You know about how he came back before they were discharged, with a car seat and a box of warm clothes for both of them, hand-me-downs from his daughter and granddaughter. And you know, the most important part, that on the day your wife came into the world, it was the first time her mother believed in the kindness of strangers. A belief that kept them afloat for years and years to come. You know these things, but you'd hear them a thousand times, if Maribel wanted to re-tell them. Because they're special to them, and that makes them special to you, too. "Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat? Or a drink. Or—"

_No, no, relax. Looks like you got up even earlier than me. I'll just go put my things down in the office, and then we're headed to the station to surprise Santana, right?_

"That. It's the plan. As long as you're still okay with it."

_Of course, whatever you want. I'm just so very glad you wanted to include me in this today._

"You know, when I started making plans. I. I just couldn't think of anything but."

Maribel, she gets herself settled quickly. She always does. Because she never really brings much, and, you kind of can't wait for her to have a space in your home that's more her own. Where she can leave some things. Where she can be more comfortable, you're sure, than she is on that Aerobed, nice as it is. You know it's been Santana's dream for a long time, and the more you dream about your future house, the more those two dreams seem to mesh into one. While Maribel washes up, after her train ride, you finish frosting the cake. You can't help but dot the  _i_ in  _Birthday_ with a heart. And you smile to yourself as you cover it. You smile to yourself because, you realize, when you love someone, suddenly  _their_ special days begin to feel even more special than your own.

You walk over to the radio station. Otis seems to know where you're going, and you smile, as you watch him try to keep his excitement at bay. Maribel has gotten better at remembering not to try to talk to you while you're walking, a tough thing to get used to, you know, even for Santana, who'd been so in tune with you. She takes in the changing colors of the city around you, and you enjoy watching her do so. It's a different pace than New York, that's for sure, but she seems to enjoy it. She seems to enjoy it, and. And you wonder sometimes, maybe, if she won't end up here permanently someday, especially, if— You shake the thought out of your head. For now. And you hold the door open for your mother-in-law when you arrive at the studio.

_Britt. Mama._ You see the excitement on Santana's face when you walk in the door. You see the way she looks at you. Face soft. Eyes burning into you. Because she knows you planned this, and. And it's made her really, really happy. She kisses you first, a quick hello, that turns a little longer than quick, but, you shoo her off of you.

"Your mom got on a train at six o'clock this morning. Go give her a hug, I'll be here when you're done."

_You. Just. Thank you, Brittany._

"Of course. What kind of wife would I be, if I didn't know what you wanted most for your birthday?"

_I love you. Seriously, thank you._

They both wipe tears from their eyes after they embrace. It's something they always do. It's something you understand, a lot. It was just them, for so long. And being separated by all these miles, you know it must be hard. You know it makes Santana sad sometimes. You know she hangs up the phone and you have to kiss away her blues, because she hates that she doesn't see her mom all the time. But. Their reunions are always so sweet. Their reunions, they always make you choke on the lump in your throat, because seeing how they love each other. It's something so incredibly beautiful. And. You wonder, a lot. If this is how most mothers and daughters are. You don't think so. You think what they have is really special. And you're glad it is. Because they deserve it. They deserve it, so much. You don't know what they're saying. Santana slips into her fast, Queens accent, which you still can't really imagine, but you can tell by her lips, and Maribel keeps up. They're catching up, and, though Santana looks to you in an effort to include you, you wave her away. You have all day, you have all weekend, and you want her to have at least this few minutes, for them to say all the things they've been dying to say.

You go back to the house, all of you, in Santana's car. Otis is thrilled to have Maribel in the backseat with him. He rests his head on her shoulder. He grins at the treats she slips to him— his big goofy dog grin. He's thrilled to have her. Santana, she gasps when she walks in. You don't have to hear it to know. She covers her mouth with her hands, and then, then she covers  _your_ mouth with hers. It's not much. But. For Santana, coming from you, it's everything. She admires the flowers, she hugs you tight and nuzzles her face into your neck, because, because. And she insists on helping you make lunch, though it's her birthday, and you tell her she shouldn't have to. But she wants to, so you let her. She wants to, so you work together side by side in the kitchen. You make sandwiches. And she smiles. Crinkle eyes. Dimples. The entire time.

After lunch, you eat cake. It's her birthday tradition, one that Maribel has verified for you on more than one occasion. Santana, she's extra adorable, in one of the party hats you'd bought for the event. She blows out the candles. She makes wishes, wishes you think you know, wishes you hope you can help come true. She gulps down her cake, admitting to you that she's glad you made it from scratch, and then. Then she shares another piece with you. You give her most of it, because she enjoys it so much. And she pats her full belly. Looking even cuter, in that silver hat. You kiss the last of the frosting off her lips, and Maribel. Maribel just smiles at you, because you're young and in love, and she loves that, she tells you how much. All the time.

You relax for awhile when you're finished. Santana's tired, you know, but she winks at you across the room. She's telling you it was totally worth it, and, you blush— you blush pretty profusely. You don't think Maribel notices, but, you turn away, you turn toward the stove, and you set about making coffee, until your cheeks cool off. When the coffee is ready, you bring it into the living room. This tiny bit of entertaining, you really enjoy it, and Santana, she looks at you, with that look. The one that makes your heart race. And when you find your seat, she doesn't take her eyes off of you, not for a single second. Even as her mom tells you both the birthday story. Even as you wipe the tears from your eyes, even as you sniffle a little. Because you've heard the story before. But the way Maribel tells it. The way she looks at your wife, like she's the light of her whole world. It just, makes the entire thing so much more— so much more everything.

_This is where I'd hoped you'd be when you were thirty, baby girl. From the first minute you were in my arms, and I knew all I really had to offer you was my love, this is what my dreams for you looked like. You. All grown up, in a job that you love. With a person who you love, and who loves you back. When I see you so happy, I think iI did something right._

_Mama, you did a lot right. Trust me. You raised me good and strong, and ask Britt, she knows how thankful I am for you._

"It's true." You nod. "And so am I. Santana is the best person I've ever met, and I. I know that a lot of that. It's. It's because of you. And because you made a lot of sacrifices so she had. Opportunities, and just. A home with a lot of love."

_Seeing your home, both of your home, filled with the same kind of love, it definitely confirms for me that it was more important than anything._

_We think so, too._ Santana, she puts her hand over yours, and she catches your eye. Something, something's burning in there. Something that fans a small flame, in the pit of your stomach. And, you're not quite sure what it is. But it's a slow kind of burn, the kind you think, might not turn into a full fledged blaze, not for a bit of time. It warms you, though. It warms part of you that you never knew was buried deep inside, and you just, you smile. You smile at your wife. The secret kind, the kind that you don't often share in the company of others, but—  _I had really hoped we'd find a house by now though. Seemed like a good goal for thirty._

_Santana._ You watch the laughter dance across Maribel's features.  _I'd say that having a radio show and a wonderful wife were more than sufficient for thirty._

_I know, Mama. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I'm so lucky to have everything that I have. It just, feels really unsettled, this waiting thing we're doing._

_Oh, I know you don't. I know you want this so much. You were dreaming about this before you even knew what you were dreaming of, and trust me, I dreamed of it too, for you. But, the house will come when it comes. And it'll be everything you ever hoped for._

"It's true, Santana." You nod. You rub your thumb on the inside of her wrist. You think, sometimes, that she wasn't born so patient. But that patience was what she'd learned through hardship, and sometimes, sometimes, her impatience flares up, white hot. Before she stomps it back down and paints that serenity on her face. "I think soon too. According to that blog I've been reading, fall is the best time to buy."

_Sometimes I think the internet just makes things up._

"I think most of the time they do." You can't help but laugh at her face, and you lean in to give her a quick kiss. "But let's go with this one. Let's keep hoping that we'll spend our first Christmas in our new house."

_I hope._

_If that's the case, you should prepare yourself, Brittany. You'll be in for a whole lot of decorating. She's been waiting her whole life for this._

"Oh, I know." You suck your lips into your mouth. You picture Santana, wrapped in garland. You picture Santana, picking out the perfect tree, without the space constraints you have here. You just picture her, her and that crinkly dimpled smile. You picture the little Santana, that comes out, when she's at her happiest. The little girl with all her big dreams coming true. "It might be what I'm looking the most forward to."

You take your time getting ready for dinner. You didn't do anything really over the top, because it's not either of your speed. But still. You made reservations close by, and it's a really nice night to walk. Santana, she looks beautiful, her hair curled, her sweater dress and boots. Cozy and sexy all at once. You have to kiss her breathless before you leave. Just because. Because she's your wife. Because it's her birthday. Because you love her so much that you can't help it. And she's gentle, when she wipes her lipstick from your mouth. She's gentle, as she kisses the corner of it, before she reapplies. She's gentle, as she wraps a scarf around your neck, and pulls you close as you walk out the door. And Maribel's smiling again. She's smiling, and you're so proud to be part of those dreams of hers for Santana come true.

Dinner is exactly what you'd wanted. Your own little corner of the restaurant, where neither of you worry about Otis beneath the table. Santana's favorite risotto, two bottles of wine, and tortoni. It's just like most of your Friday nights, except tonight you have her mom here. Tonight there's a candle in the dessert, and Santana ducks her head in embarrassment when three waiters sing what you can only assume is an Italian variation of  _Happy Birthday,_ since you can't manage to read the words they sing. Tonight there are gifts. A beautiful blue cashmere scarf from her mom. A bracelet you slip onto her wrist while she's distracted. Infinity, on a silver chain. Because you'd seen it, shopping in Center City one morning, months ago. And, you could think of nothing else but her. So you'd bought it, and you'd saved it. For this day. For her biggest birthday yet. It's perfect, it's so perfect, the whole evening. It's all you'd wanted for her. And after you eat, with Santana wrapped in her new scarf, her old one tucked away in her purse, Maribel, she tells you she's going to head home. Maribel, she accepts your keys, so she can go back. So you can walk through the park. Your arm wrapped around your wife's waist. Her head resting on your shoulder.

"Did you have a nice day?" You ask her, once you're sitting down on a bench in the park. She's soft and snuggly, a little tipsy from the wine and the excitement. And Otis, he lies at your feet, watching, watching, because he always steps up his game even more than usual at night. He keeps you safe, your boy.

_The perfect day. Britt. Just, thank you. Thank you for always including my mom in the big stuff. I know maybe it's a little annoying that we're so close. But—_

"Hey, it's not. Not at all. Why would that ever annoy me that you love your mom the way you do?"

_I don't know._ She shrugs, but you know, you do. You know, and you hate that she even thinks to feel that way.

"Santana, my stuff with my mother. It sucks. It sucks a lot. And. And I still get sad about it sometimes. But having your mom, it makes me less sad, okay? She. She treats me like a daughter, too. And I appreciate it. So. So much."

_She thinks of you as one too, you know._

"I do. She makes me feel it. She's very good to me. And I love her so much. Don't ever think that I compare your happy things to my sad things. Because we share them. Happy and sad. That one was pretty much really in our vows, right?"

_It was. For better, for worse covers that, right?_

"Yeah, I think it does." You lean over. You kiss her. You take your time. You're mostly alone in the park, and you just. You want to make sure she knows that you mean the things you say. "I'm glad she was able to come. This was a big day for her, too."

_Yeah, it really was. You know, when I was a teenager, before I came out, she was like, totally nuts with me. Yelling at me that if I was having sex I better talk to her, and so help me God I better use protection. I think— I think she was actually relieved that I wasn't going to sleep with boys. And I—_ She pauses for a minute, she puts her hand on top of yours. She does that, when she's very serious, and you squeeze them from beneath.  _I used to wonder a lot, how much she regretted, you know, having me, keeping me. She could have given me away, or, whatever, and her parents, my, grandparents, I guess, probably would have taken her back._

"Santana."

_No, it's okay. I mean, it was just like, when everyone else was resenting their moms for dumb teenage stuff, I was wondering if mine was resenting me, you know? Like. She gave up everything for me. And, then, the day I graduated high school, she told me that seeing me there, in my cap and gown, going to college, it made her sure she made the right choice. Not because of her, Britt, but because of me. She told me she worried my whole life that she didn't ruin my life by bringing me from the hospital to a woman's shelter, and then raising me with nothing. But it made me the person I am, and I really don't look back on my childhood and feel like I missed out._

"I know you don't. I don't. I don't really know people. But it's not like I don't watch TV, or see movies, or read books. I just. I don't think other people look back so happily on their lives. And I don't think other people are as grateful as you are."

_Thank you for saying that. I try, I really do. Even if I'm impatient sometimes._

"It's kind of cute when you are," you tell her, and she wrinkles her nose, trying to hide her grin.

_I just hope when we…if we…_ She stops. Mid-sentence. And you look at her. You look at her for a long time. You look at the fire, flickering in her eyes. The hopefulness there. And your heart, it pounds against your ribcage. It pounds, thinking about what she's saying. It pounds, because— because you've been thinking about it lately. You've been thinking about the future, and, it makes your every nerve prickle. But. But—

"When we." You assure her. The thrill, rushing through you. You think, you think. You think your voice is really soft. But her eyes, they must be softer. They're melting. And they're melting  _you._ "Definitely when we. But. Not yet. I want. I want to. To have have a little more time with just us first."

_Britt._ She kisses your top lip, and she picks up your hands.  _I'm so happy that it's something you want too, a bigger family. I'm not ready to even really talk about it yet, I want to buy our house, and ease into all of that slowly. But, I just, I was going to say that I hope, when we have…when we have kids, that we raise them to be happy, and grateful, and, I just hope that we'll be good moms to them._

"I hope that too, Santana." You know, you know that she will be. Because you've seen her with the kids in the park. You've seen her with the families she works with. But what you hope, is that when the time eventually comes, that you will be, too. "Wow. We're starting off your new decade with big things, aren't we?"

_Always big things with you, Sweetheart. The biggest, and the best._

"Happy birthday, Santana." You kiss her. You cup her cheek. You drink her in. "Happy, happy birthday."


	24. It Always Leads Me Here

**Santana**

The weather, it turns cold fast. Your brisk fall becomes nearly winter-like as November starts, and with your longer workdays getting ready for all of your holiday festivities, you miss the opportunity to cuddle Brittany closer for just a few moments longer in the early morning hours. But as per usual, she's amazing. She finds a bigger thermos and packs you more coffee— and you tell Philadelphia on the air just how jealous they should be that you get to start every morning with your wife's coffee, while Jonas quips that you won't even share it with him. She brings you lunch when you work into the afternoon, making list after list of the things each of your families need. You savor your nights together, like you've done each year since you've met her, and still, you keep up with your house hunt, your hope of being in before Christmas not waning, even as it draws closer.

It's the second Saturday of November, and you're in Target. Both you and Brittany are pushing carts, hers filled with clothes, socks, and underwear in various sizes, yours filled with toys. You're making real progress on the shopping, and since Brittany is the most organized person ever to exist, she's quick to wrap, label, and box almost immediately upon returning from the store. This family that you're shopping for, you've known them since their five-year-old was a baby, and Brittany knows they have a special place in your heart, so she sticks by you as you mosey through the store, making sure everything you get is perfect. You're in line when your phone rings. You consider letting it go to voicemail, but when you look at the screen and see a number you don't recognize, you answer it,  _hoping_ maybe it's another realtor for you, hoping  _maybe_ you can see another house, since it's the first Saturday in the month that you don't have something set up.

You're ecstatic, really, when it's the broker for the townhouse on Walnut that you and Brittany have had your eye on. It had been just out of your price range, and you wouldn't even go for a viewing, for fear you'd fall in love with it. But two days ago, still unsold, the price had dropped, and you're pretty sure you've never sent an email so fast in your life. Brittany keeps her eyes on you, while you sign what's happening on the other end of the call to her, and she nods emphatically, those universe eyes, glowing, almost, when you tell her you can see it this afternoon. You've been trying, really, with each place you've seen, not to get your hopes up. But this one, not far from where you live now, you just have this good feeling. It's almost like it's the place you've been picturing the two of you living, the two of you, and Otis, and this other little person that might come into your lives somewhere in the future. Your butterflies, they go a little wild at the thought, and you grip the side of the cart once you hang up the phone. You grip the cart, and then, just because you're not sure what else to do, you kiss Brittany, right at checkout lane seven in Target.

"I shouldn't be this excited," she tells you, though she does a little hop, startling Otis. "But. I already. I know I love that place. Even from outside. I feel like we stalked it all summer."

"I mean, we kind of did." You laugh. "They were always barbecuing out back, I wanted to invite ourselves over there."

"Oh. I know you did. I wouldn't have been against it. But. I don't know, maybe that's why I'm excited. I. I pictured us there. Even though it wasn't an option."

"Me too!" You shout, and you know she knows that you did, because she starts giggling, and your cheeks burn at how loud you truly were. "Sorry, everyone in Target."

"I love you." She shakes her head. "I love you a lot, and I'm not sure how loud you were, but, it's very cute that you're excited like this."

"It's just, I really want us to find a place, and if it's this one, I think that would be even better."

"Yeah, it would be." She nods, and then she takes a deep breath, because, she strives to be level-headed. "But if it's not, we will. We'll find the place we're supposed to spend our lives in. This dream is coming true, Santana."

"I know." You lean over the cart while she starts putting things on the conveyor belt, and you kiss her again. "I know, and I can't wait."

After you finish checking out, you load the car, and you have plenty of time to get the bags upstairs and park before you have to meet the broker. Bubbling with excitement, you pass time in the park, cozy in your hats and gloves, Otis already wearing his little boots on the cold concrete. You check your watch about four dozen times, and finally, finally, it's two o'clock. Brittany wraps her arm around her waist as you head over there, maybe because she thinks one of you might float away with all of your excitement. Just before you reach the place, Brittany gives you another quick kiss, helping to settle your nerves, helping to get your head back in the game, so you don't walk in and blurt out the way you've been walking by this place every day for months, years, even, maybe, if you're being truthful. There's just something about it, something that intrigued you, long before you met Brittany.

Bianca, the broker, knows about Otis, and she stands outside, waiting for you to arrive. You wring your hands, trying to contain yourself, and you see Brittany, that adoring look on her face, the face that makes you smile sheepishly. She knows you really haven't stopped bubbling inside, but you put up a good façade. You ask questions about how long it's been on the market, while she opens the door, and you sign to Brittany, in case she misses the way Bianca speaks so quickly. You're nearly crying in the foyer, just because you're here, and, barring any major surprises inside, you can feel it, you want this. The owners have moved out, since last summer, and the empty space, it feels like your home. Even Otis, he looks around curiously. And Brittany, she admires the kitchen, the big counters, the breakfast nook, the upgraded appliances. She keeps her eyes on you, and not just for your signs, she keeps her eyes on you, because she knows, she knows. It's what you've been looking for, both of you. The outdoor space, sunny, and big enough for you to cook and eat there, or for her to paint, in the warm months. The big bay window that overlooks the park, one of those things you both sort of know you need. Three bedrooms, and a nook that could absolutely serve as a workspace. An open floor plan, which makes it easier for you to communicate with each other when you aren't in the same room. It's just, everything you'd really imagined it would be, and you want it, you want it so badly, but you know you can't just say that, right then and there.

You linger in the house. Brittany finds your hand, and she laces your fingers together. She leans into you, just a little, and you hear her sharp intake of breath. You're certain, more than certain, that she's doing just what you are. Those pictures you'd had in your head, they were only with the imaginary insides of this house, but now, standing here, looking at the fireplace, the brick hearth, it's so much more clear. You picture this empty room, filled with one of the sets of furniture you've been looking at online, dreaming together. You picture lying with Brittany on the couch, Otis on the floor beside you. You picture Christmases and rainy afternoons, you picture your life, here, and you tell Bianca you'll be in touch. You and Brittany, you need to talk. And if she loves it as much as you, you need to act fast, and you need to put to use again the skills you'd taught yourself. You could buy without a broker on your end, and draw up an offer as soon as humanly possible.

"Do you love it?" Brittany asks you, once you've said goodbye to Bianca, and she's standing across from you, swinging your hands between your bodies.

"I— Britt, love isn't even the word. What did you think? Because if you—"

"Santana, you're so good." She makes your cheeks burn hot, and then she kisses both of them. "I think it's perfect. I want it. More than the place we got outbid on even. I just. We're pre-approved for our mortgage. We need to go home and get an offer in before anyone else can."

"I can't even think straight." You bounce on your toes a little. You don't even know how to contain the excitement. Your hopes, they're so high, and unlike the last place you'd wanted to buy, you're not having an hours-long conversation before you know that you want it. You're just, you're ready for this, and so is she. Brittany, your careful planner, she's making a snap decision, and you know, you know she feels strongly about it. "But let's do it, let's get it all written and faxed. Let's not let someone beat us to it."

In the apartment, you talk logistics. You decide to make a full price offer, because you're afraid someone else will snap it up. You both know that maybe you're being overly cautious, since it's been on the market for so long, but, it's really your dream home. It's really the place where you believe you'll end up raising your family, and you won't take the risk. Though you're careful with money, you refuse to quibble over a few thousand dollars, not on this place. Not after months of hunting. Brittany, she reads over the offer you type up probably ten times, but you can hardly even focus on doing it once. As soon as she gives her final approval, you leave a message for Bianca, and you send it. You send it, and Brittany catches you up in her arms in front of the fax machine. She's laughing, so uninhibitedly, and she twirls you around, making you laugh just as much. You dance and spin, totally forgetting you're not supposed to get your hopes up, and you end up naked and in bed, just, having the best sort of giggly, excited sex. Just, burning more thoughts of your coming future into each other's skin.

Though Sunday is your favorite day of the week, this one drags. You walk past the house on your way to brunch— and you, maybe, maybe mumble a  _hi, house_ as you do, dorky as it is— and then you walk by again on the way home, a little tipsy on mimosas, with Brittany holding you by the waist. You check your e-mail every thirty seconds, and you stare at the phone. It's Sunday, you're sure you won't get a reply, but, that doesn't stop you from hoping anyway. After a nap on top of Brittany, where she does the thing with your hair that makes you purr a little, you wrap more gifts together, and you plan your next shopping excursion. But both of you, you're distracted, both of you, you're trying to keep yourselves from thinking about the only thing you actually can. Both of you, you're watching the hours tick by, since you'd specified a three day window for response time in your offer.

It rains on Monday morning. You're pretty exhausted, since you and Brittany stayed up late, lying on your stomachs on the bed, looking at furniture online. You put your phone away while you do your show, because you know it's entirely too much of a distraction. You may not even hear from them until tomorrow, but you're just so incredibly anxious. On air, you give Jonas advice about the new girl he's dating, you encourage more callers to donate to your needy families fund, and you throw passing glances at your purse across the room. You know it's still the crack of dawn, but you don't think you've ever felt so impatient in your life. Because with the exception of Brittany, you've never wanted anything so badly. When you're finally finished, you just about throw yourself across the room, but there are no new messages, and you scream internally.

When you walk through the door, soaking wet from the rain, you're secretly glad to see that Brittany has been just as anxious as you've been. Her easel is blank, and she sits on the window bench, her knees pulled up to her chest, absently petting Otis. You flick the lights to let her know that you're home, and she gets up, kissing you on the lips while you hang up your wet coat. She insists on making you tea, worried about how cold and wet you are, and you relent, glad you'll be able to snuggle with her, once you change into your dry clothes. You go into the bedroom, and you grab one of her sweatshirts and a pair of flannel pants to change into. You're just pulling your shirt off over your head, when the phone rings on the bed beside you. In your struggle to get to it, you nearly fall over, and when you see Bianca's name on the caller ID, you grab it and run out into the kitchen, clad in only your bra and underwear.

"Santana Lopez's phone." You answer, then shake your head at yourself, because you really don't know where that even came from, and it sounds utterly ridiculous. Brittany covers her mouth, stifling her laugh, as she wiggles in her spot, waiting.

" _Hi, Santana. It's Bianca Stephens, how are you?"_

"I'm good, really good." Goosebumps run down your spine, and you're not sure whether it's from cold or anticipation. Brittany runs her hands up and down your arms, trying to warm you up, and you look into her eyes, the whole universe before you. "How are you?"

" _Fine, thanks. The Rockwells got back to me just a little while ago, and they're going to accept your offer."_

"They are?" You gasp, and you grab Brittany's hands. You're nodding vigorously so she knows, she knows it's real, and you see the tears as they spring to her eyes. "They're accepting it? Really?"

" _Yes, really."_ Bianca laughs a little, and you're sure she's witnessed this before. You're sure you're not the only almost first time home owner who is just about reduced to tears on the phone.  _"I don't have a prospective closing date for you yet, but since both you and the sellers are interested in moving quickly, we could be looking at early next month."_

"Early next month?" You repeat, because Brittany's hands have yours in a death grip, and you don't think you could remember the signs for what you need to say, even if you had use of them. Her face, it's a complete smile, eyes, cheeks, mouth, everything. She mouths back to you  _before Christmas,_ making your stomach flip flop and your heart race.

" _That's what we're hoping for. I'm going to send the documents through your lawyer's office, and you'll need to deal with them and with the bank, but it looks like you and your wife are about to be homeowners."_

"Thank you! Thank you!" Your excitement is uncontrollable. The tears that stream out of your eyes are uncontrollable. This, it's everything you've been waiting for your entire life, and though it's not official yet, you have an  _accepted offer._ You're almost there, and you feel like if Brittany lets go of you, your knees will buckle. She's your rock, your wife, and she's keeping you at least a little bit grounded, while you feel seriously lightheaded over everything.

Bianca promises to send you an email with everything you need to do. You're sure you sound just a little bit crazy, but you can't even bring yourself to worry about it. Brittany, her eyes are boring into you, and in those universe eyes, your entire future is flashing before you. When you finally hang up the phone, you toss it onto the couch, and you squeal as Brittany wraps her arms around your bare stomach, and she spins you around and around. You'd forgotten you were nearly naked, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't even matter in the slightest.

"We're getting a house!" She cries out, her excitement ringing through the room, while all you can do is laugh. You laugh and laugh in her arms. You laugh and laugh, because all of this, the sheer joy of your life with Brittany, the accepted offer on the house of your dreams, it all just seems so surreal.

When she finally sets you back on your feet, you're even dizzier and more light-headed than you were before. But it's the best kind of dizzy. The best kind of light-headed. The best kind of  _everything._ You press your hands to her cheeks, and you kiss her. You kiss her, until, even with your eyes closed, you see the stars from her universe eyes. She lifts you up again, and you wrap your legs around her waist. You haven't even said a single word to her, since you've hung up the phone, but somehow, it doesn't seem to matter. Somehow, all of this spinning and kissing and laughing, it just seems infinitely more important.

"We're getting a house!" You kiss it into her mouth, and she doesn't have to see your lips to know what it is you're saying.

"It's real. It's real, Santana." She pulls away, finally. She's entirely breathless, her skin is flushed, there are still tears in her eyes, and she plays with the ends of your hair. "Your dream. The dream that became mine too. It's happening. We searched and searched. And. And they took our offer on the perfect house."

"They did! They really did, Sweetheart. I don't even know what to do with myself." A sob rips from your chest, and you feel your whole body shake. Twenty-four years, and, it's coming true. It's coming true with  _her,_ and everything, even the best things in the world, Brittany, your Brittany makes them even better.

"Champagne." Brittany blurts out, because you think, you think, she doesn't know what to do with herself either. "I know it's eleven-thirty on a Monday. And it's not— It's not official, official. But. But we need champagne."

"We do. Champagne. I just— Don't let go of me, because I really don't think I can stand right now."

"Here." She backs you up to the couch, and you drop down, tossing your head back and laughing again. Because she's Brittany, and she takes such good care of you, she wraps you up in a throw, and she kisses your forehead, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips, her excited trembling against you making you shiver. "Stay right here. I'll be right back. And. And then we're celebrating. Weekday morning or not. We're celebrating dreams coming true."


	25. Every Little Thing She Does

**Brittany**

It goes off without a hitch. The closing on the house. You drink a lot of champagne afterwards. In the kitchen of the empty new place. Santana orders takeout, and you eat it on the floor. She lays out the blanket from the trunk of her car, and when you're finished, containers tossed off to the side, she lowers you down. She lowers you and she slips your dress over your head. She slides off your stockings, and she kisses you everywhere, in your new home. You see stars, as she makes love to you. Slow. Burning. Absolutely everything. You feel her smile all over your body. You tangle your hands in her hair, and you tingle. The sheer joy in her everything. The joy you feel too. It just. It makes your lovemaking better than ever before. And you can't wait. You can't wait until you actually live there. You can't wait until this is your real life.

She's so busy with work, with getting ready for the dinner, that you have to put off the move for a few weeks. But you pack. She thanks you over and over again for doing so much work. With flowers. With kisses. But you don't need her  _thank you_ 's, you tell her. You're anxious to move, too. And you spend a lot of time over there, you and Otis. You get used to the hugeness of the space, comparatively. You walk around with your eyes closed, learning it in darkness. You sign for furniture deliveries, because much of what you have already, you're donating. You paint there, as the place is wired for new doorbells and smoke alarms and kitchen timers. The electrician. He's deaf too, and it's Otis who alerts you that the sounds are working as well as the lights. When it's all done, it feels more like home. And Santana, she meets you there after work. She drives boxes over, and the two of you unpack what you can together. She kisses you over and over, and again, you both vibrate with excitement. It's all real. It's all real. The dreams. They're not just dreams anymore.

Her dinner, it goes off without a hitch, too. Carson is there, to help this year. His family has fallen on better times, but like Santana's mom, his parents don't want any of them to forget what it's like, when they weren't. So he helps. He and his brother. And he shows you and Santana how he's learning to speak. He's proud of himself, and you're proud of him, too. You're proud of him, and it makes you think of the conversation. The one you'd had with Santana. On her birthday. You haven't spoken about it since. But. The way she looks at you, when you're speaking rapid sign with Carson. It makes you think maybe, maybe, she's thinking about it, too.

It's the night before you're set to move. You're both doing the last of your last-minute packing. She's in the living room, winding up connection cables and wrapping the television in bubble wrap. You're lying on your stomach in the bedroom, pulling things out from under the bed. When your fingers hit the spine of a book. Your stomach turns to lead. It's a photo album. One you'd taken from your parents' house. One you'd long forgotten was in your possession. One that had been buried away beneath the bed for years. You swallow hard as you pull it out. You don't want to look. You  _hate_ looking at this. But. You're. You're compelled. Almost. To turn the dusty pages. You don't realize you're crying. Not until Otis nudges your cheek, and you hold him close to you as you go through this. The seventh year of your life. Jessie, all pudgy with her baby fat. And your mom. Beaming with pride at her girls. The last days before she stopped being proud of you. It hits you hard. It doesn't often, but when it does, it makes you feel some sort of twisting, aching physical pain. You're lost in the pages. In the pictures. And you don't notice the flicker of the lights that tell you Santana has entered. Not until she's kneeling before you, concern written all over her face.

_Sweetheart. What's the matter?_ She signs it to you, and then she presses a palm to your cheek. She wipes away tears with her thumb. You just shrug, and you think, you think, she sighs, sad, when she sees what's in your lap.  _Oh, Britt._

"It's fine. It's fine." You sniffle. "It's done. It's over. I'm fine."

_It's okay to cry, Brittany._

Her face, it's soft, so soft, that you can't control the sob that breaks free from your chest. You can't control the way you completely break down, falling into her open arms. Wetting her hair with the river of tears that streams from your eyes. You ache. You ache, suddenly, in a way that. That you haven't. Not since last October. Not ever. She holds you so tightly. She rubs your back. She kisses the top of your head. And Otis. He keeps his head on your shoulder. They're your whole world. Your wife and your dog. And. And that thought, it. It just. It makes you cry even more. It makes you cry for a long, long time. It makes you cry until there are no tears left. Until your head hurts and your throat hurts and your whole face is swollen and red. Until your body is completely limp. You cry until you're all cried out. And Santana, she holds you still. She whispers things, you think, though you can't hear it. She whispers her love words. Because she knows. She knows. Even though you can't hear them, it doesn't make them any less true.

"Thank you." You can feel the scratchiness of your voice in your throat, and you lift your head up to see that she had been crying with you. She had been crying, because she feels your pain. Inside her own body. The same way you feel hers. When she's hurt. Or sick. Or sad. She feels it. Because she loves you so hard. So completely. "I just. I took this when I moved out. I. Maybe I was being spiteful. I just. I didn't want her to have it. I—"

_It's okay, it's okay. Take your time,_ she tells you. She knows you struggle with your words. With your feelings. And she's patient. Always patient.

"I needed to have this for only me. Because. Because she made the choice not to love me anymore. And. I. I needed her to not have the pictures of the last time she did. She shouldn't get to. I haven't looked at them in a really, really long time, until now, but I wanted to have them."

_I understand._ She nods, and she twists her hands in her lap.  _And if you ever want me to look at them with you, you know that I'm here, Sweetheart._

"I think. I think maybe I need that. I have. I have a few pages left. But they're the hardest ones. I'm sorry. I know we have a lot to do tonight. It's just. I—"

_Hey, you don't have to explain. We're moving out of this place you've lived in for nine years. And you don't like change, but you're taking all of this so well. So if you need to stop and get a hold on things, that's okay with me._

"I love you so much." You find yourself blinking really quickly. Her eyes looking into yours, that fire in them, it just, warms you, especially when you think of all the coldness you've encountered. Even married almost a year, you still latch onto that, you still, surround yourself in the great love she gives to you. And it's your turn to cup her face, to kiss her. To drink in all of her love. Because it helps you, more than anything, when you feel yourself struggling. And when you pull away, you show her the pictures in the album. "This. It's my first day of school. The month before. Before I fell in the pool."

_Look at you, Britt._ She smiles at you, for you, tracing her pointer over the picture of you at the bus stop.  _You were almost as cute then as you are now._

"Santana." You blush, and she shuffles beside you, so she can hold you.

She doesn't let go. Not while you show her the school pictures. The pumpkin picking. And then. That day. You remember how excited you'd been. Putting on your costume. They'd had a costume contest every year, and. You were sure you'd win. It didn't matter that it was just a costume from the party store. To you, it was the very best. Those red and white boots. Your tiara. The fact that you really had your own Lasso of Truth. You were just. Beside yourself, really. And you were ready three hours before the party. Running around the house. Saving your stuffed animals. Saving Jessie. The tears, they spring to your eyes again, when you think about it. You cry, and Santana kisses your temple. Santana hugs you to her body. Santana doesn't tell you that you're being ridiculous, or that you shouldn't feel. She lets you get to the very last picture. You. With your mom, dressed as Catwoman, and your dad as Superman. And Jessie, strong willed even at a young age, as a princess. You close it, you have to, and Santana holds you again. Only for a minute, until you suck in as much air as you can, and you straighten your back.

_I think, Britt, that you proved that day, and every day since, that you're a real super hero._

"Santana."

_No, I mean it. I'm in awe of you all the time. And I hope you know that._

"Thank you, for just. For how you are with me. Santana. I know you've been worrying about me adjusting to this move. And. I've been totally fine, and excited. This. The book. It's just hit me hard. Because this kid right here—" You run your finger over that little you. The  _before_ you. "Her mom believed she'd be successful, whether it was art, or dance, or rocket science. Her mom believed she'd marry the love of her life. That she'd buy a house. That someday she'd— maybe she'd be a mom. I just. I wish she'd stuck around long enough to see that the little girl that appeared the next day, that stranger in her life. That she could do all those things, too."

_And you did._

"I did. We did. We both just. Did a lot with what we had. I know it's been a year, and I should. I should be totally over this by now."

_Brittany, there's no timeline for things like this._

"I guess. Part of me, just. Expected one of them to show up, or something, at some point. And we're moving now. So it feels like, what's that expression? The one about coffins?

_The final nail in the coffin._ She purses her lips, unsure what to say, and you run your thumb along her cheek.

"I can't wait to start this new chapter of our lives tomorrow, really. And I'm not going to let them put a damper on this, just like I didn't let them put a damper on our wedding. They have my phone number. I haven't disappeared. I was just having a moment."

_Have all the moments you need, Sweetheart. It doesn't put a damper on things for me either. I'm all done in the living room. Do you want me to help you finish up in here, and then we'll go to bed here for the last time?_

"Yeah." You nod, and you fall into her again. Just, needing her embrace once more, an embrace she's happy to share. "Yeah that sounds good. I think I really tired myself out crying like that."

You fall asleep so much faster than you'd expected. Santana, she can always tell when you have a headache, and she massages your scalp, she runs her fingers through your hair. And just when you feel yourself slipping off into sleep, she pulls you into her arms. She kisses your lips, and she holds you close. When you wake up in the morning, you're feeling better. You feel the excitement that had waned a little reignite by the fire in your wife's eyes, and you make coffee, while Santana pours the cereal. You're bringing the table with you, one of the few pieces of furniture you're taking, but still, it feels strange, sitting there having your last breakfast with Santana, here in the place you'd had your first. The walls are bare, the remaining boxes, they're stacked neatly by the door, and Otis, he sniffs around. You think he realizes what's happening, but still, he's trained to be aware of his surroundings, and you know this confuses him a little.

At nine, the movers arrive, along with Jonas, whom Santana had roped into helping. They work quickly, loading things into the truck, and you hang behind a bit while Santana gives them direction. She feels it too, you know she does, the strange sense of nostalgia, and just for a moment, she comes up behind you, standing on her tip toes, resting her head on your shoulder, hugging you tightly. You don't need words, you're both just saying goodbye to your first home together. You walk the floors. Though you have until the end of the year, you'll really have no reason to come back. And once you're sure you're finished, you pull her by the straps of her overalls— since she'd designated them as moving clothes— and you kiss her. You kiss her one more time, before you lock the door behind you, and Otis leads the way out to the car.

The grin on your wife's face, when she pulls into your new driveway, you're sure it will be burned into your mind forever. It's even more than just crinkle eyes and dimples. She looks like she's actually glowing, at the sight, her hand, it tightens where it rests on your thigh. This place, it's been yours for two weeks, this house, but, now you're never going to another home. Now this is where you'll stay, maybe forever. And in her eyes, in her smile, in the rosiness of her cheeks, you witness it. You witness her truly seeing her dream come to fruition. Even more than you saw at the closing table, when they'd first handed the two of you the keys. She gets out of the car, and you see her, you see her take a deep breath, before she comes to your side. Before she takes your hand. Before she leads you and Otis to walk through the door.

You're glad that you've already done so much in the weeks before this final day. You're glad that most of your unpacking, it's just the absolute essentials. Because it goes quickly. Santana, she orders pizza for Jonas and the delivery guys for lunch, and after that, they leave. After that, it's just you, and your wife, and your dog. In this big new space, hanging your clothes in the two separate closets in your bedroom. It's more space than you can even imagine, really, with your old bedroom furniture set up in what will be the guest bedroom. Or really, Maribel's room when she visits. And the third bedroom, it's just a storage space for now, but you both know what it'll turn into, eventually. When nearly all of the unpacking is done, you see a question forming on Santana's lips, as they turn up, in a sort of wry smile, and you kiss her, because when she does that, it's just. It's too cute for you not to.

"What?" You ask her, and she gestures to the window.

_Snow._ She signs.  _A lot of it. Did you notice?_

"I did. Earlier, when I was putting the silverware away. I'm glad we got everything moved over here when we did."

_I was thinking._ She shimmies her body a little, and she kisses your nose, taking your hands how she does. She's really. She's just too much to take sometimes. When she's being like this, and your heart, it races. Your heart, it just, adores her, with all it has.  _That maybe you wanted to go get a Christmas tree?_

"Tonight?" You raise an eyebrow, and when you look at the clock, you realize that it's only five-thirty.

_Well._ She goes the lip biting thing she does. The one when she tries to pull her big grin back inside. But her eyes, they sparkle and crinkle. Her dimples, they don't go away, and your smile grows bigger in response.  _We have to go out to get something for dinner anyway, unless you want to share that one leftover pizza slice._

"I definitely don't. All this unpacking has me really, really hungry. And. I want to get our tree."

_Look at all the space we have for a big one._ She hops up and down, pointing to where you'd stacked the decorations when you'd unpacked, and you pull her into your arms. You just. You want to hug her. You want to hold her close. Because her happiness, it makes you feel so incredibly happy. Her excitement, it runs through your veins, constantly, and you bury your face in her neck, you breathe her in. And you sigh, truly content.

You bundle up, hats and coats and gloves, and she fumbles with the keys a little, getting used to how they feel in the lock. She links her arm with yours, leaning into you, and Otis, he sticks by your side, cautious about the icy sidewalk. You just grab soup and sandwiches for dinner. Santana is too excited to sit still for that long, and you. You're excited too. You want to get the tree inside so it can settle overnight, and you want to have a fire in that big new fireplace. So you can lie on the couch in front of it, Santana in your arms.

It doesn't take long to find a tree. Without the space constraints that you've had at Christmases past, you can go for anything you want. It's you who finds it. A fat Fraser with strong branches for the heavy ornaments. When she jumps in your arms, expressing her approval, you spin her around. You spin her in the snow, and you just, you feel like you're at such a contrast to where you were last night. Your eyes, they're still a little swollen, but, everything else aside, you have everything you could ever want. With this girl. This exuberant, fire-eyed girl. With your new house. With this sense of security. One you've never had before. You're okay. You're more than okay. And though you know, you know, the ache somewhere deep in your chest, it'll find its way to the surface sometimes, it isn't pervasive. It doesn't fill your every waking moment. Because your wife, who kisses you in the snow. Your wife, whom you have dozens more plans for the future with. She does. She does, and that means more than anything else in the world.

"Should we get this one ready to go home, Santana?" You put her down, and her cheeks, they're rosy and bright under the multicolored lights.

_Yeah, Sweetheart, let's go have our first night it our new home._


	26. I'm Gonna Love You Any Old Way

**Santana**

You don't have much time, but Christmas is coming, and you want to go all-out. Together, you and Brittany decorate like you've always dreamed, tinsel on the tree, garland on the banisters, stockings hanging over the mantle, mistletoe, so much mistletoe. Your mom is coming down on Christmas Eve, and she's so excited to see the house. Before she comes, you and Brittany put your new kitchen to good use. Brittany, the real cook, absolutely loves it. The space, the multicolored flashing light timers she hadn't had in the apartment. She feels safer, cooking there, she tells you, and you don't need mistletoe to kiss her then. You just spin her around in front of the stove, and you hold her close. You kiss her breathless, until her cheeks are rosy, and those universe eyes, they dance. Your wife, she's beautiful, she's so beautiful, but when she's happy like that, she surpasses even radiant.

The week is cold and wet. It's not supposed to snow, like you'd hoped. Instead it stays just above freezing, and ever since the snow stopped on the night you'd moved in, it seems to rain constantly. Though the snow had been brutal last year, you're pretty sure you'd take that over the ice cold rain that makes everything entirely impossible. It's the day before Christmas Eve, and it's still raining. You grumble when you get out of bed. Your head is a little light, and your nose feels stuffy, but, you have to go to work, and you have a few last minute things to do after. It's four-fifteen, and the plinking on the bedroom window is driving you crazy, it's making your head ache like crazy. But still, you go to roll out of bed, before you feel Brittany grasp you by the arm.

"You're sick." She murmurs, letting her eyes slowly open and look over at the window. "You're sick. Don't. Don't go out in this."

"I'm fine, Britt." You tell her, and though your throat feels scratchy, you really are. You don't  _get_ sick. You've never taken a sick day from work in your life, and you're not about to start now, not the day before your two-week holiday vacation. Not the day you have so much to do.

"You were up coughing all night, the whole bed was shaking."

"It's just really dry in here." You argue, and she rolls her eyes. "Or something."

"Santana, please?"

"Sweetheart, if I was sick, I'd stay home. But I'm not. Don't worry."

You hear her sigh. But really, you're okay. You roll out of bed and you blink your eyes rapidly, trudging to the shower. You let the hot water seep into your skin. It's  _really_ cold in the house, you notice, and you shiver when you get out, wishing, kind of, that you'd spent that ridiculous amount of money on heated bathroom floors. You don't feel like drying your hair, the cold, it's making you feel particularly lazy. Trying to avoid the disaster it'll become though, untamed, you pull it into a braid. You put on your jeans and a purple button up shirt, trying to look professional, though you might look twelve, with your hair that way. You shiver again, and you go to the thermostat, turning it up. Both you and Brittany are careful about the cost of heating oil. But it's  _freezing_ , and you need to warm up before you go out in the never-ending rain. Brittany is sitting at the table when you go into the kitchen. Otis nudges your thigh a little. You'd been so distracted by the cold, and the weird foggy feeling, that you'd forgotten to say good morning to him. You lean down and scratch his ears, before you sink into your chair. You must have had a really bad night of sleep, because you feel completely exhausted.

"You're not cold?" You sip your coffee, letting it warm you inside, and you look at her, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. She shakes her head. "It's freezing in here. Are you getting sick?"

"Really, Santana? Baby." She uses the term of endearment, and it's rare for her. She knows how her saying your name gives you butterflies, so she usually just calls you that. "Are you really still in denial about being the one who's sick? I love you, but you don't look good. If you get back into bed, I'll. I'll cuddle you all day and I'll make you alphabet soup."

"You can't bribe me into saying I'm sick with cuddles and soup." You sneeze, and she raises an eyebrow. "I've got an important stop to make after work, and then we've got the rest of the cookies to bake. I promise, I'm totally good."

She doesn't goad you about it any longer, but she wraps an extra scarf around you when you're leaving, and she hands you a second thermos, filled with tea. You appease her, because you would never  _not_ take something she made for you, and you do have to admit, when you take a sip, that the lemon feels really, really good on your dry throat. You're about thirty-five minutes into your show, when you start sneezing uncontrollably. Jonas takes your microphone away, and you scowl at him when he asks if you've heard yourself talk. In total contrast to your house, the studio feels hot and stuffy, and considering your co-host refuses to let you speak on air, you step out into the lobby, and you find yourself a chair to sink down into. It's not until Jonas shakes you awake, hours later, holding your cellphone in your hand with a dozen texts from Brittany, checking on you, that you realize that you'd fallen asleep. And maybe,  _that_ isn't exactly the best indicator of good health. Maybe, you'd been trying so hard to believe you weren't, that you'd conveniently excused every single symptom you'd had.

When you stand again, your lightheadedness has gotten worse, and you feel pretty disoriented. You forget about the Christmas tasks you have to do, and Jonas drives you home. He tells you he'll bring you back whenever you're feeling well enough to get your car, and you don't even argue, you don't even remember to wish him a merry Christmas, because you won't see him again before. You're not yourself, not at all. You really can't remember ever being sick in your adult life, and, it feels like there's a weight pressing down on your whole body. When you get to the front of the house, you wave off Jonas' attempts to help you inside, but when you walk in and remember all of the stairs you have, you suddenly wish that you hadn't. You kick your heels off, and, for a moment, you really consider just falling asleep right there in the entryway. But, Otis heard you come in, and Brittany comes down the stairs before you can collapse there. Her smile, it's so soft, and her body, it just looks so warm and comfortable, that you immediately fall into her embrace. Even with your stuffed up nose, you still breathe her in. She holds you, she rubs your back, and, she doesn't gloat. She doesn't say she told you so, about being sick. She just holds you, and helps you up the stairs.

"Britt, I think you were right." You groan, sliding out of your damp jeans and crawling into bed half clothed. Brittany climbs up over you, and she presses a soft kiss to your forehead, before covering you up with a blanket.

"I wish I wasn't. You're warm though, and you look so tired. What can I get for you?"

"I don't know." You wonder if she can tell that you're whining, though you can't really stop yourself. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. I really don't want to be sick for Christmas."

"I know." She soothes, brushing your hair out of your face and holding your cheek in her hand. "But I did go to the store early this morning. Because I. I didn't want to get caught in the rush when you decided you were sick. And. I guess you can't smell the soup on the stove."

"You already started making me soup?" You melt, and she knows it. You melt, and she looks at you, those universe eyes brimming with her love for you. "You're too good to me."

"No better than you are to me. I also got you cough medicine, so hopefully we can knock this all out of you as quick as possible. But even if you're sick, we'll still be together. And, we're here, in our pretty decorated house." She assures you, and you nod weakly. "Otis, you want to keep Santana company. While I go make her some more tea?"

Otis climbs up onto the bed with you. He rests his head on your stomach, keeping you warm, since you're cold again. You close your eyes, and you pet his head. You're tired, so tired, you can't even believe you'd managed to drive yourself to work feeling like this. The bed, it's so soft and warm and comfortable. Brittany, she put new sheets on it, the winter flannel ones, that you surround yourself in, and before she comes back, with the medicine, with the tea, you're sound asleep. When you wake up, you have no idea how long you've been out, but your chest, it feels like someone's sitting on it. You cough, you cough hard, and it aches, everything aches. Brittany, whom you hadn't noticed was lying beside you, sits up, and she furrows her brow in concern when you grimace in pain. For someone who doesn't get sick, you're not used to this, and as you blow your nose, you cry a little.

_My chest hurts._ You sign to her, and she runs her thumb over the button row on your shirt.  _Everything hurts._

"You can't be comfortable like this. I didn't want to wake you. But. Let me get you pajamas."

"Your sweatshirt." You mix signs and spoken English, and you try, you try to enunciate, though your throat is raw.  _No pants._

She gives you the clothes, and you sigh a little in relief when you manage to take your bra off. Mostly, you want to go back to sleep, you want Brittany to hold you in her arms, but after you swallow the cupful of Robitussin, she tells you, gently, that you should eat something, or you might throw up. She made you alphabet soup from scratch, and, if you weren't so miserable, you know, you know, that you'd kiss her silly. This woman, she's just, she's really something else. She brings you soup in bed. She holds the bowl for you, since your hands feel shaky, and slowly, slowly, you manage to finish half of it. You don't feel better, not physically, you're achy and sore and you can't stop coughing, but somehow, in some weird magic way, she manages to make you feel so much more comfortable, just by being close by.

You text your mom. You still want her to come, no matter what, but you're just warning her, you don't know if you're contagious. Brittany, she doesn't think so. She thinks you're just run down, it's been an incredibly busy month, and you've hardly had a moment to breathe, but she takes the phone from your hands, she takes over texting, just because, you think, she's her, and, talking to your mom, it reassures her that she's doing everything right. The cookies you'd planned to make, Brittany nixes, she's not going to leave you, and the last minute things you were supposed to pick up, you know they're not going to happen, and you know that Brittany will understand. Instead, you're isolated from the chaos of December twenty-third. It's just the two of you, and Otis, all by yourselves in your new home. You lean on her, you sip your tea, you let her rub that horrible smelling camphor beneath your nose, on your chest. You let her fuss over you, help you pull sweatshirts and blankets on and off as needed, and a little high on cold medicine, watching  _A Flintstones Christmas Carol—_ her favorite, you know, she used to watch it on Christmas Eve mornings— you finally manage to fall into a dreamless sleep.

When you wake up again, there's grey light streaming through your windows. It's morning again, and it's still raining. It's morning, and it's Christmas Eve. Apparently, that cough syrup had really knocked you out, and you'd slept for more consecutive hours than you can remember sleeping. You roll over, and Brittany's gone, along with Otis, but on the nightstand, she's left you more medicine, more tea, and a note. You don't care what she argues, not really, because your wife, she really is too good to you. Your wife, she's the most amazing caretaker in the world, and just for a minute, even feeling like absolute death, you manage to envision her as the caretaker for someone else. You envision her, in this role that you know will come so perfectly naturally to her, though you hear her reservations, her insecurities, in the words she doesn't speak.

She's so sweet in her note. It wishes you your first merry Christmas as her wife, and it tells you that Jonas sent her a message and offered to take her to pick up your mom, and then, to your car, so your mom could drive it back to the house. At those words, you take a moment, just to be thankful for your friend. You may not have them knocking down your doors, but the very few people you keep close, they're good, so good, to you both. After you manage to down some more medicine, you decide that you're going to make an attempt to get out of bed. Even if you know you're not really up for the festivities that you've been so looking forward to, you don't want to stay shut up in the bedroom, and you definitely don't want your wife to be torn between caring for you and entertaining your mother.

So you figure you'll shower. Brittany, because she's Brittany, left you shower tablets on the bathroom sink. She knows how desperately you want to be well, and you're pretty sure that she may have bought out half of Walgreens in her effort to make that happen. The vapors from the tablet definitely help to open up your nasal passages, but your chest is still heavy, and your head still aches a little. Because of that, you're more than glad to get out of the steamy shower, to pull on dryer fresh sweatpants, and another of Brittany's sweatshirts. You think, you think you should probably make sure everything is straightened up, but when you come out of your room, you remember who you're married to. You can't smell the bleach like you usually can, not stuffed up, but you know that Brittany had been up early. You're hit with another swell of love for her, and you reheat your tea, before flicking on all the Christmas lights and curling up beneath a throw blanket on the couch. You're just getting yourself comfortable with your tissue box, when you hear the door downstairs open, and you smile, because you know, it's your two favorite people in the entire world.

"Otis, let's get you all dried off." You hear Brittany's voice from downstairs.

"Brittany, it's so much bigger than in the pictures." The pride in her voice, it makes your heart just squeeze. It makes you feel like a little girl, when she'd look at you, when she'd say  _baby girl, all these big dreams of yours will come true some day, you're going great places._ And now, now she's standing in the home you just bought with your wife, on Christmas Eve, and you're suddenly feeling incredibly emotional.

"You're only in the foyer. Wait until. Until you see the rest. But I think Santana's really been looking forward to showing you. So. Hopefully she'll be feeling up to it a little later."

"I hope so too. My poor girl. You know, when she was little, and she'd get sick, I used to take her into my bed with me, and I'd lay her against my chest and I wouldn't sleep, not for a minute."

"That explains why she loves to be cuddled so much when she's sick. Actually—" Brittany's laughter rings out, as you hear them, unzipping coats and taking off shoes.

"She's always a cuddler." Your mom finishes for her. "It was a security thing for both of us, when she was little. I spent a lot of time fearful she'd be taken away from me. Especially during the time we spent in the shelter, and it was also the most I could give to her, so I think I created a more snuggly than normal child, holding her so close."

"Well. I. I appreciate it." She's blushing, you think. "My family, they were never really. Into that. I guess. So I like it. A lot."

"Come here." You're sure your mom is pulling her in for a hug, and then smoothing down her shirt, when she pulls back. You're so proud of the way Brittany accepts someone else in her space, truly. She's meticulous and guarded, but, your mom, she's gotten past that, your mom, she's allowed to give her affection. And they're close. Even through just monthly visits and shared text messages, they're closer than you could have ever hoped for. "Your family is into that now. And if you and my daughter have children, I'm sure they will be too."

"We will." It's soft, like Brittany can barely get the words from her throat, but you hear it, and you shiver. Not from the fever, but because those future thoughts, they get you every time. "I'm not sure when. Just yet. But. It's in our plan. Santana, she. She makes me feel like I can do anything."

"And you can. You'll be a really great mom, Brittany. Both of you will be."

"You really think that, Maribel?" The hopefulness in her voice, it fills you up. You know it. She knows you know it, but you think, for her, hearing your  _mother_ say it, that's something else entirely.

"I know it. You'll know it too, the minute you are. I questioned a lot of what I was doing, a lot of the time, but whenever my little girl was in my arms, and whenever she looked at me with those big brown eyes, my concern faded, even if just for a moment."

"I think you're a really great mom. And I know Santana thinks so too."

"That means a lot, thank you. Now come on, let's go see if that sick daughter of mine is still in bed."

"Hold on. Your room is down here. We liked the idea that you'd have a little more privacy in this place. I know Santana wanted to show you everything. But. I think it's okay to show you this. So you can— can put your things away before we go up."

You swallow hard, not just from the phlegm that seems to clog your  _everything,_ but because you were able to witness such an intimate moment between your mother and your wife, and your heart feels really swollen. When their feet are on the stairs, you sit up, though your head feels heavy, and you blow your nose again, just as they reach the top. They're smiling. Brittany, she's just, she's beautiful. Her rain damp hair, her cheeks red from the cold, and her eyes, clear, dancing. They're beautiful, always, that universe inside of them turns your insides, even when it's stormy. But unadulterated joy, it's something else. She catches sight of you, and she smiles, she smiles so softly, so gently, and you just, glow inside. You're not sure if there's ever been a person in the world so affected by the one they love as you are, but you're perfectly okay to keep that title for yourself.

"You're up. How are you feeling?" She comes to your side, nudging Otis, who'd beat her, to let her in, and she sits down, unable to help but kiss your forehead to feel if you're still warm.

_Little bit better,_ you sign.  _Thank you._

_For what?_

_Cleaning. Going to the train._ You attempt to remember the signs for what you want to say, but sometimes, you think, you just can't express them the way you want to. "Just for being you."

"Well I'm glad I can be me for you." She laughs a little, and you laugh too.

"Me too." You tear your eyes away from her, and you look to your mother, who's eying the room, looking at the open kitchen, smiling at your giant Christmas tree. She's already seen her room, since you really do expect that she'll be your only overnight guest, and both you and Brittany have taken to calling it that. "Hi Mama. What do you think?"

"Oh, Santana." She turns back to you, eyes full of tears. Good tears. The best tears. "You got your big Christmas tree."

"I did. We did." You nod, and you find Brittany's hand, weaving your fingers through hers. There's so many words you know your mother wants to say, but somehow, those cover it all. They cover the dreams of a little girl, and they cover a mother who gets to witness them all come true. "Biggest one on the lot, do you remember—"

"The year Mrs. Pershing let me take you with me to get their tree." Your mom nods, and Brittany squeezes your hand. You've told her the story so many times, about you as a nine-year-old, picking out a tree that wouldn't be yours, that would go to the fancy home your mother worked in on swanky Sutton Place and be decorated in blown glass ornaments by a design team. A day that brought you so much joy, just because it was you and your mom picking that tree together. "I'm glad you didn't decorate it like the rich people though."

"No way! You know my dog bone reindeer needs its place on the tree. It wouldn't really fit in with a bunch of crystal balls. Plus, Brittany has a pretty big collection herself."

"I like the artsy ones." She shrugs. "I always buy them when I see them."

"Well it's a nice mix of both of you. As is what I've seen so far of your home."

"That's what we tried for. Do you like your room?"

"I do. And I'm sure that garden view you gave me will be even more beautiful in the summer."

"I'm going to plant tulips." Brittany tells her. She's so excited for that. It was one of the first things she'd said, once you'd signed the contract, and there's just, something about the image of her gardening that does something to you. You both like simple things. Coffee and flowers. Good food, good wine. Your own forms of art. Each other. And this place, this home of yours, it seems to give you a place for all of that. "And then sunflowers. And herbs. And maybe vegetables too."

"We're pretty excited about it." You kiss her temple. "Here. Let me get up so we can show you the other rooms."

"No, no, baby girl, rest. We have plenty of time, and I smell Brittany's coffee, so I'm going to get myself a cup and then, if you'll let me, light a fire in this fireplace before I come sit down and talk."

"I can—" Brittany starts, but your mother shakes her head.

"Brittany, stay, I'm perfectly fine to get my own coffee. Just point me in the direction of the mugs,"

"Above the sink." You wrap your arm around Brittany's waist when you feel her attempt to stand anyway. "Britt, you've done so much. Don't think I didn't spot the cinnamon crunch muffins when I warmed up my tea. What time did you get up anyway?"

"Four-thirty." She shrugs a little as she says it and you shake your head. "I figured I'd make something for breakfast that you might be tempted to eat."

"You spoil me, you know,"

"Maybe just a little." Her whole  _being_ seems to sparkle with delight, and you snuggle into her side. You still feel like crap, in a pretty big way, but Brittany and your mom are right, you are sort of a cuddle monster, and you like- no, you  _love_ \- being close to her like this. She positions herself so you can lay your head against her chest, and still look up at her eyes, and she beams down at you, still. "You don't need anything?"

"Just you. I might try to eat something in a little while, but right now, this is good, really good. My head doesn't feel so heavy."

"I'm glad." She strokes your hair, and even after you sneeze, she brushes your nose with hers, and she kisses you, she kisses you softly, her eyelashes fluttering against you skin. "You know. This. This right here. It kind of feels like the best kind of Christmas."

"I think." You breathe all of her in, as best you can, though you grasp your chest after you do. You watch her face, those tree lights reflecting, just faintly on her cheeks, bathing her in rainbow. "I think you're really right, sweetheart. Even sick, there's nothing, nothing, could make this a happier Christmas than spending it just like this, with you. Happy first Christmas, my wife."

"Happy—Merry first Christmas to you. My love."


	27. The Way That You Do

**Brittany**

Your Christmas and New Year pass in a soft sort of serenity. Santana, she's not much better for Christmas Day, though she tries. She tries, in spite of your insistence that she relax. You get it. You do. This Christmas, she's been waiting for it forever. And it sucks that she's feverish and exhausted. But you try to make it the best it can be. You eat dinner on the coffee table in the living room. You still use use the new tablecloth there, and light candles, while Maribel makes a fire. You snuggle with her. Kissing her extra, because you hate when she's sad. You exchange the small gifts you'd agreed to keep it to- though she promises one more, when she's feeling better. You give her mother gifts, too. And you have a little eggnog to celebrate. Because she swears the brandy will counteract the effects of the milk on her cold. Something you won't argue, because she cuddles into you after, feeling the buzz of it since she hasn't eaten much. She writes  _I love you's_ on your hands, and she falls asleep, just like that.

You stay in for New Year's Eve too, once you send Maribel back home. You stay in, and Santana. She feels much better. Together, you cook lobsters and tip back raw oysters. You drink champagne, you drink a lot of it. Because it feels like a big one. All the years since you met her do. All the years that lit up your careful existence. All the years you've loved. And as the hour turns late, she takes you in her arms in the bedroom. Her lips, they're bubbly from champagne. Your head, it's light. She puts your hand to her throat, and she lets you feel the music she sings. And the two of you, you and the woman you love more than anything, you slow dance in your pajamas as the year turns.

She takes you to Asheville for your anniversary. You'd told her last summer that you'd always wanted to go, that the paintings there are always so beautiful. So you go, just for a long weekend. She finds a small inn near the Biltmore Estate, and she drives down. You explore the little town. You visit the estate. She watches you paint, her smile beaming, as you do. You make love to her, long, slow, full of all the love that constantly rushes through your body. You fall asleep. With her head on your chest. Listening to your heartbeat, you think. While your hand rests over hers, feeling it, feeling the way it beats only for you. You can't believe it. But you've been married for a year. You're beginning the second year, and your heart, though you're close to sleep, it races. It races in your throat. In your fingertips. In the ends of your toes. It races everywhere. It always does with her. You're lucky, you're so incredibly lucky, and you hope there never comes a day when you forget to reflect on that.

The winter stays as wet as it had been in December, as January rolls into February. You occupy yourself with projects around the house. You finish another book, so your days are freer. Your weekday mornings, you fill them with organizing the things you've piled up in the third bedroom. Because. You just. You've been feeling a certain way since Christmas. And you just. You want to start doing practical things about the space. It's the way you prepare yourself. Prepare yourself for a conversation that you think you want to have. Soon. Soon. Your weekends, of course. You spend together. Mostly inside. Because of rain and sleet and general yuck. Saturdays, they involve putting up shelves. Framing photographs. Painting walls, because you'd wanted to wait until you'd lived in the house for a little bit before you chose colors. And Sundays. Sundays are always for early morning love-making. For finding new brunch spots— though it's gotten harder. You've had a lot of Sundays. For putting your pajamas back on mid-afternoon and lying together in front of the fire. Otis, on his back, soaking up the heat. You think. You think. You think. When you lie with her. You think so loud, you wonder if maybe she can hear. But you're not sure. About her hearing you. Not about the thing. The thing, you're more sure every day. With every kiss. Every touch. Every look. Every crinkly smile of hers. You're sure. So sure.

It's a rare dry Saturday in February. The day after Valentine's Day. You're just a little sore from the night you'd had, and you swear, you see color on Santana's her face as she wraps her arm around your waist. You're both bundled up, and Santana, she's wearing one of your hats, the flaps pulled down over her ears. You don't- you don't know how it's possible that you want to kiss her always. But you do. And you nuzzle the side of her face a little bit. You kiss her temple, and she stops, right in the middle of the park. She catches your lips, and you sigh into her mouth. She smiles when she pulls back, and she rubs her cold nose against yours, making you squeak a little.

"How do you even get so cold?" You purse your lips. And her tongue, she bites down on it and she shrugs.

_Guess you'll just have to warm me up._ Her eyebrows lift and you just, you press your hands against her cheeks, warming  _them_ too. And you kiss her nose.

"Better?"

_Always._ She signs it, circling, with her pointer, and you pull her scarf tighter around her. You rub your thumbs. Just a little more. On her cheeks.  _We're going to be late, if you keep distracting me._

"Sorry, Otis." You look down at him, and he lifts his ears up. You're taking him to the vet. You sort of feel the same way about  _his_ annual check ups as you do about yours. It's doctors, you guess. They just. They worry you. It's naive, maybe. But. But you don't want to know bad things. Even though you have to. And Otis, he's fine. He's fine, but he's still your best friend, your lifeline, your  _family._ And you need it to stay that way. For a long time. Santana, she's good. She's so good. She knows what triggers your anxiety. And she squeezes your arms. She kisses you once more. She slips her hand into yours, twining your fingers. Giving you something to squeeze. "Let's do it. "

It's fine. It's all fine. As he always does, the vet tells you that your boy is healthy as they come. He's getting older, you know, maybe he's a little slower than he used to be. But that's okay, you're not very fast either. Your life isn't very fast. Your life isn't very busy. It's just the way you like it. And how Otis has learned to like it to. You feed him the best food you can. You protect his paws with his little boots. You make sure he's warm and safe and loved. But you still get chills every year. You get chills and now. Now your wife, she's there to rub your back. She's there to praise Otis with you. She's there. She's just there. And you love her, you love her more for that, just because of her presence in a room.

Santana. She insists on buying him a new toy after his visit. She's a goof. Really. But your dog, he loves her a lot, too. And not just because of the toys, you don't think. He loves her because she loves him. And because she loves you. He sees it, he's always seen it, that she makes you so happy. He sees it, and you think, you think, that his love for her, it comes as a result of his devotion to you. But still, she buys him a stuffed rabbit, and he nuzzles her hand. He appreciates it, and she gets down on the floor in the lobby of the vet's office to show him affection. Your heart thumps. Harder, harder against your ribs, watching that. She talks to him, and you know, you know, her voice must be soft. Because her eyes are crinkly, and you think, though you've never heard it, that maybe that's an indicator of her quiet voice. You think that, and, you can't help but think about it again. You can't help but think about the thing. The big thing. You just. You can't make yourself stop thinking about it. Your mind. Your heart. They've been a twisted web of all these things. And you— you're just— you're trying, trying. Trying to untangle all the webs. To organize your brain and your heart. Just like that bedroom. So your words, when you talk to her, they don't get all tangled up too.

_What?_ She looks up from the floor. She sees that smile on your face. She see your thinking eyes, you're sure. Because she always sees you, and you just. You smile bigger. Because looking at her like that. It does so many things to your insides.

"You're just— you." You breathe in. You breathe out. Then you breathe in again. It's brewing. You feel it. Even in the tangles. It's brewing. And it's going to explode out of you. But not here. Not in front of all these people. Her fire eyes, they burn through you. But. She's good. She's so good, and she looks down. She knows that sometimes they make it hard for you to think. So she takes the pressure off of you by taking them off of you. "He just loves you."

_I love him too. Always have._

"I know." You wonder, you wonder, if your voice sounds funny. It feels— it feels strained, maybe, in your throat. Like you said, you did know. It was one of the things that made you fall so hard for her in the first place. The way she just. She loved your dog. She didn't think you were weird for how you loved him, too. And for the faces she makes while she talks to him. The faces that remind you that she's going to be such a good— such an amazing—

_Sweetheart, do you want to go?_ Santana feels it, maybe. The buzzling. Buzzing. Crackling. It's in the air. It has to be. Because your skin prickles. Shivers go up and down your spine. It's— anticipation? Maybe? You don't— you don't know the right word.

"Yeah. Yeah we." Tangles, tangles. You're ripping through them. You're yanking at them. You're. You're exposing these raw parts of you that hide behind them. Maybe. You don't know. This is all so strange. So new. "We should go. Yeah."

Her understanding of you. Maybe it won't ever stop amazing you. She doesn't push or prod or pry. She just asks you if you want to get some lunch. She accepts your nod, and, she slides an arm around your waist. She leans into you a little. Because she knows her presence comforts you. And. She isn't sure if comfort is what you need, but she just— she offers it to you anyway, if you want to take it. The certainty she makes you feel. It tugs at more tangles. Never. Never in your life. Have you felt any sense of certainty. Not until her. The world, it was scary and fast and confusing. The slow life you live, it felt caught up in it all. But she seems to slow it down somehow, or, maybe, when you look at her, you can ignore the rushing around you. Because you're safe from it. You're safe. Safe. And. You can do anything. She makes you feel that. Really. Like. Like you told Maribel. She empowers you. She teaches you to empower yourself. And so you want the things you never thought you did before. You want them, because you allow yourself to. Because you know you're capable of having them.

It's colder, when you leave. It's sunshine cold though. You love sunshine cold. It makes you feel alive, in a strange way. Santana, she lets you cover her face with her scarf. You don't talk anyway, while you walk. So you don't have to see her lips. Your coat, you pull tighter around you, and you take Otis' vest out of his bag, so he can get some warmth too. You don't even discuss where you're going, you both just walk to the same bistro where you always go. Brunch, you change up. Dinner, you change up. But for some reason, the place you go for your rarest meal out, it never changes. It's right around the corner from your house, and the staff, they know Otis, the staff, they've known him since he was a puppy. Because you've been going since you first moved to the city, and Santana, she has too. It was both of your place, before it was your place together. And something, something about that, it makes it feel sort of special.

The hostess shows you to your usual table. Santana's nose and cheeks are red, even from under her scarf. And the way she looks at you, you know yours are too. But you don't feel it. All you feel inside is burning, burning, burning. You don't— you don't know how to even begin this conversation. You want to, though. You need to. The desire at the pit of your being, it seems to grow every day. It grows faster than the fear about it. Though that— that grows, too. It twists and aches, it makes more tangles, while you tear them down. Santana though, she looks at you, she looks at you like you're everything, and the light in her eyes, it tries to temper those fears. It keeps you knowing, knowing. Knowing that you want this, you want this more than anything.

"I'm afraid to be pregnant." You blurt it out, right after the waitress takes your order, and then. Then you turn red everywhere. It— it wasn't what you meant to say. How you meant to start this conversation. But. It was on the tip of your tongue. And now, now you feel— you feel really twisty and strange. Your hands, they shake. But she reaches across the table. She takes hold of them. She steadies them. She steadies  _you._ "That's not. It's not— I. I didn't mean to. To start this. With that. Can you— can I— Just. Start over?"

_Brittany. Of course. Take your time._ You think her eyes, they light. You're not sure, because she controls it well. But. She knows. She must know. What this is about, and— Your heart keeps racing. It's racing, and you're still trembling. Santana, she doesn't let go of your hands. She holds you. She keeps eye contact. And you take another deep breath.

"I've just. I. I've been thinking about what we talked about. On your birthday. A lot. So. So much. Since we moved into the house."

_I have, too._ She speaks when you pause. She bites her bottom lip. The fire, it flickers, in her eyes.  _Every time I pass the other bedroom._

"I've been really trying to. To organize the stuff in there. Because it's mostly mine, and. And I just want to finish and find real places for everything."

_It looks really good, Britt._ She plays with your fingers. She knows it relaxes you. Her touch.  _It'll be empty really soon._

"Few more weeks. I hope. I. Santana." You lean across the table, and you kiss her. Just. Just a soft, little one. You need it though. You need it to stop your head from spinning. You settle back down, and you press your hands against your own cheeks. She's not interrupting what you need to say. But she knows. She knows. "I think that I— I want to continue that conversation. Or. Start it, for real. If. If you're ready to talk about it too."

_Sweetheart._ Her features bloom like you've never seen them before. It's slow to spread across her face, but, the crinkle smile comes. Her dimples, they deepen. Her nose, it scrunches up. And she looks like she might start to— To glow.  _I'd like that a lot._

"Yeah?" Your heart rises up into your throat.

_Yes. Yes for sure. I feel—_ She pauses, and she just looks at you. That look you love so much, again. That look like you're everything.  _I feel so settled, in our home, in our life. And it's the best feeling, Brittany, it's the feeling I lived my life waiting for, and now it's here. With you. And starting a family with you, that would just be the icing on the cake for me._

"I'm scared. I'm scared about a lot— About a lot of things." You confess, swallowing hard. You don't want your eyes to fill with tears. You're not sad, not at all. You're just very, very emotional. This is big. Huge. It's more than you ever believed yourself capable of. It's more that  _anyone_ believed you capable of, outside of your wife, and her mom. But you can't, you  _won't_ let fear hold you back. Not from this great big thing that you keep imagining. "I've never been so scared of anything, than to. To know I'll be a mom. That a little person is— Counting on me. But. I don't know if I've ever wanted something so much either."

_Hey._  Her hand, it detaches from yours, so she can cup the side of your face. So she can stroke her thumb over the apple of your cheek. So she can look. Deep. Deep. Into your eyes.  _I'm scared too. I've done a lot of things, but, I've never been a mom either. I think maybe you're supposed to be. I don't know. But everything you'll worry about, we'll figure it out together. We'll do it together._

"I don't know. How you want to— to do it. I love you. I love you so much. And I would do anything for you, really. But. I. I think I'd be too afraid to carry our baby."

_I would never, ever want you to do something with your body that made you feel afraid, even for a moment. Britt. Sweetheart. If us going through pregnancy and childbirth together is something that's important to you, I would carry our baby any day._

"If—if it's important to me? But what about you?"

_That was never something that was important to me. What I always thought I would do was— adopt a baby, maybe. I know that, that my mom kept me, but, it would have made her life a lot less difficult if she'd given me up. And I know that sometimes, she used to wonder if my life would be better if she had._ She sucks her lips into her mouth. She gets teary-eyed, like she does, always, when she talks about her mom. About the difficult choices she'd made. About how they both became who they are.  _I just, I don't know, I like the idea of being a mother to someone whose biological parents couldn't keep them. For whatever reason. But I'm open, really, Britt, if that's not something you want._

"Santana." Your chest aches. From the way your heart swells. Because her heart. It's just so big. So full of generosity. And you love her. You love her more. You love her so much that you can hardly handle it. "I don't. I don't care how we get a family. I just. Care that I'm having it with you. But will they—" You stop and you close your eyes. Collecting yourself. "Will they let us. Let us adopt? With my, brain, and, not being able to hear?"

_Britt, look at me. You are going to be an absolutely amazing mother. Your hearing, your brain injury, it doesn't impact your ability to love and to care for a child. I want you to remember that, okay?_

"I'll love them so much, Santana. I'll never let them feel like. Like they're not good enough. Or they don't belong. Or—" You feel the tears, as they begin to stream down your face. The gravity of what adopting would mean to you, who'd been cast off by your family  _not_ because they couldn't care for you, but because really, they didn't think you were good enough, hitting impossibly hard.

_I know. I know you won't._ She wipes the tears from your cheeks, and she gives you another soft kiss.  _You will be as good a mother as anyone else. No, better. I see you. You're made to be a mom. You're a nurturer, a caretaker, and you have this love in your heart that you want to give. You'll be the best there is. You'll teach them sign. And to paint. And to cook. We have so much research to do, before we can even begin. But, who you are, that's not going to change our ability to adopt a child. I promise you that._

"Okay." You exhale. All the emotions of the conversation hitting you hard. Santana stand up, her own emotions written all over her face, and she slides into your side of the booth. She wraps her arms around you. She holds you, and you hold her back. Because this decision you just made. It's life-changing. This decision you just made. It's everything. "And you will be too, Santana. So. So wonderful, as a mom."

_Thank you._ She ducks her head, and she blushes. So you kiss her cheeks.  _I hope so._

"I know it's true." You look into her eyes, your body feels warm, so warm. And you smile, the biggest smile maybe ever. "So we're. We're going to start trying to be moms?"

_Yeah, Sweetheart. We absolutely are._


	28. A Thing Or Two About Our Love

**Santana**

She's ready. Brittany is ready to start a family, and you're so excited, you actually feel like you might throw up. It's one of those things, those silly little thoughts that crossed your mind after your first date, those thoughts that made you know right away that she was your  _one._ And now, now those thoughts, each and every one of them, the  _dreams,_ really, of white dresses, of a cozy house, of the potential to have a little one that's both of yours, they're all coming true. They're all real, or, almost real. They're all real, with this girl who's so much better in reality than she was when you imagined her before you'd ever met.

You know she's nervous, and you really are too, but you know her anxiety comes from a different place. While yours comes from the thought of the unknown, hers, it's her fear of inadequacy, the fear that you've been trying to coax out of her for years now. But you get it, you get it so much. When you've been told your whole life that you're not good enough, not worthy enough, those fears, they don't just disappear. She's trying though, you know she is. Because she wants this, she wants to be a mom, just like you do, and you think, you think, once she is, maybe she'll see how lucky your child is to have her, how absolutely incredible she truly is.

So you research, you go to orientations at a few different agencies before you choose one, you fill out an application, baring your innermost parts on paper for someone to review, for someone to help you find a child, a baby. You've discussed it at length, and that's your final conclusion, that a child under a year would be what's best for your family. She'd confessed her insecurities about a child older than that, a child used to being exclusively around hearing people, she'd confessed that she feared that even as their mother, they'd get frustrated with her, because she wasn't able to do all of the things they were used to, she feared that she would be less loved. You understand that, you do, though you're not entirely sure that would be the case, you think any child would adore your wife, her reservations are valid, and so you check the appropriate boxes on the forms.

Brittany's hands tremble, when she signs the forms, the  _z_ in her  _Lopez_ dipping just a little lower than usual, and you realize, you realize, when you go to steady them, that maybe yours are shaking just a little bit, too. They're shaking with trepidation, with excitement. This moment, it's huge, it's the first step to growing the family that you've hoped for, for longer than you can remember, really, and, once you put the pen down, you press your palm to her cheek, you look into her eyes. Those universe eyes, they're full, so full with every emotion imaginable, but greater than all the others, a hopefulness. And you kiss her, you murmur that you love her against her lips, because she knows, she always knows what you're saying when you speak there. There's nothing else that would ever feel appropriate.

The wet winter, it turns into an even wetter spring, but even in the rain, you and Brittany start on the outside work that you want to get done. That third bedroom, it's empty, it's waiting, painted in the palest shade of blue, blue that you know Brittany will cover, someday, with some sort of mural. And you peek in sometimes, while you're waiting for your application to be processed, you peek in sometimes, and you picture it, you picture the new little addition to your family that exists only in your imagination. But it's all done, the room, for now, so you put on raincoats and rubber boots, and you work with Brittany behind the house. You pull weeds, you turn up the soil, you get tomato plants in the ground, while Brittany waits for the ground to be dry enough to plant seeds. You search online for outdoor furniture, for a grill, for a wooden porch swing that you and Brittany spend a whole day fastening up to the overhang you have. You measure the space left, in your mind at least, on your little plot of grass, beside the stone patio, and you wonder, if maybe you could get a little slide there, or a baby swing, or…

_Looks good._ Brittany signs to you, on an early April Saturday, when the rain seems to have taken a little break, and the sky just hangs grey above you. You smile at her, her sweatshirt hood pulled up over her head, and you nod. Every day, your home feels more and more like yours, every day, you feel this new sense of wonderment at how perfect it all is. "Swing with me?"

_Of course._ You sign back. You've been practicing, more than ever. You're nearly fluent, but, you want to be the best you can possibly be. You want to be able to sign just as well as Brittany does. You want your hopefully-sometime-in-the-not-so-distant-future child to learn it while they learn spoken English, and you want them to learn it from both of their moms. You want to be the best at it in case…

Sitting down on the swing, the one you haven't been able to use even once, Brittany opens her arm, and you find your place in it. You rest your head on her shoulder, and she trails her fingers up and down your arm. Together, you swing, you take in the tranquility of your little yard, you look at the little tomato plants, the new furniture, the space for dinners, for laugher, for this incredible life, and you breathe in all of Brittany. You breathe her in, and you feel her looking down at you. You feel her, feeling exactly the same thing that you do.

"We're pretty handy. Aren't we?" She asks you, and looking at those universe eyes, sparkling, sparkling, you smile, you smile so wide.

"We really are. The house was pretty when we bought it, but now, it's really beautiful, and it's really home."

"Do you. Do you think when. We have a home visit, it'll be. Okay for them?"

"I think." You take her hands in yours, because you feel her anxiety, pouring off of her in waves, the way it always does when she talks about the process you're going through. You see Otis perk his head up from where he lies by the door, checking on her as well. "I think, Britt, that they're just going to see that our house looks safe, and talk to us, see that we're capable of taking care of a child. But, if they do want to see how nice our house is, I think we've got that covered, too. You, my artist, have done some pretty amazing things."

"Santana." She blushes, bright red. Taking compliments, it's still tough, even when they come from you, but they genuinely affecther, they genuinely make her feel good about herself, and you'll never stop giving them to her. "You. You have a nice eye too. For furniture, and paint colors."

"We've done a nice job, together." On the inside of her hand, you draw a heart. It's become a habit really, for you, drawing things there. It's a way, a secret way, for the two of you to communicate, and you love that.

"I hope they call soon. I. I hope they approve the application."

Her voice is soft, hesitant, and you know, you know that despite her hesitations about whether or not she's good enough, that she wants this, she wants this as much as you, she wants this maybe even more. She was the one who'd brought it up first, the second time, because she feels that urge, to be a mother. And you want it for her, too. You want a child for you as a couple, of course for you, personally, but you also want one for your wife, in a different kind of way. You want her to have this opportunity to see, herself, how incredible she is. You want her to see that she's just as amazing as you know she is. And you know, you know that it won't be all smiles and snuggles, you know being a parent will be challenging, that it'll be harder than anything you've ever done before, but still, still you can't wait for every moment of it, you can't wait to embark on this journey with the woman you love more than anything.

"Me too, Sweetheart. Me too."

You're on your way home from work when it happens. It's May, and it finally feels like spring. You have the windows down and the radio turned up in the car, the way you have it when you're alone, singing along, and you miss the call. You're not even thinking about it, really, both you and Brittany have tried to put the waiting out of your head, so you don't make yourselves crazy. So when you get out of the car and see that you have a new voicemail, you nearly trip over your own two feet as you listen. You feel like you can't breathe, really. It's just a message, from a social worker at the adoption agency, asking you to call her back, but still, you're overcome with a  _lot_ of emotion, all at once.

Getting the door unlocked, you fumble with your keys, and your hands shake. When you see Otis' silhouette through the back door, you suck as much air as you can into your lungs. Really, you're entirely sure you wouldn't be able to get yourself up the stairs, had Brittany been up there, so you're grateful, so grateful that the weather is nice, and that she uses the patio to paint. When you go outside, you're still clutching your phone in your hand, and Otis alerts Brittany of your arrival before he comes you greet you. The evidence of the voicemail, it's written all over your face, and you barely finish telling Brittany what it said, before she blurts out to call her back, call her back right now.

Though Brittany has an arm around your waist, you feel like you need to sit down, and maybe she does too. It's just a phone call, but, it makes everything start to seem very real. The application, it was just a piece of paper, but somehow, with a real, human person attached to it, you feel the butterflies push up from the pit of your stomach and explode with uncontainable energy. So you sit, you sit across from Brittany at the table, so she has the best view of your lips while you speak. You dig through your purse, you lay a notebook and a pen on the table, and you smooth the page down, crisp, ready for your notes. When you're finished, Brittany, she reaches for your hand, and she laces her fingers through yours. She's anchoring herself to you, and you to her, and you take a few breaths, you center yourself, so you don't sound crazed when you make the call.

_Okay. Okay, I'm going to do it._

"Don't sign for me. While you're on the phone." She tells you, looking into your eyes, dampness catching on her lashes, sparkling in the sunlight. Otis has his head in her lap, like he wants to be part of this, too, and you just, look at your little family, and you smile, you smile thinking, hoping. "You can tell me it all. When you get off. But I don't want you to. To be distracted."

"Okay. Yeah." You nod, because she's right, you do distract yourself when you get caught up in translating. You're getting better, but that, it's harder than just signing your own thoughts, and you do need to give this your full attention. "I love you, Britt."

"I love you too, Santana." She says, so soft with her words. You think, you think that you both just really needed to say it now. Because this journey you want to embark on, this might really be your jumping point, and you know, more than anything, the way you love each other is what's most important.

Her eyes never leave your face, once you press the phone to your ear. They stay trained on you, flickering, bright, so full of hope, so full of love. And she grounds you, her watchful eyes, her thumb, stroking your wrist, while you speak to the woman on the other end of the phone. They don't even trail down to the paper, where, with a shaky left hand, you're scrawling notes, notes about an appointment for your first meeting with her, notes about paperwork to bring. Notes, notes, notes, all about the start of this process that makes you feel a little dizzy inside. The social worker, Dina, she's sweet, she answers your questions, the ones you and Brittany have talked about, lying on your sides, face to face in bed at night, and she tells you that it will be a long process, but she'll try to make it as easy as possible for you.

Your heart leaps into your throat, when Dina tells you that they've accepted your application, that she wants to set up an appointment, to begin your home study. It clogs up your speech, you think, and Brittany, because she's Brittany, because she  _feels_ it, somehow, squeezes your hand. She calms you, and you nod. You nod to her, and then, you remember to speak back into the phone. You remember that you're talking to the person who will essentially make the decision about whether or not you're fit to adopt a child, to the person who will hopefully find a match for you, be it a pregnant woman, or a little one who's already been born, who's waiting, waiting for their moms to come and take them home. So you breathe. You breathe, and you hold Brittany tight, and you watch your wife smile, because you're smiling too, and she's reading the words on your lips. She's reading the  _we can't wait to come in for our first interview._ She's reading the  _our schedule is pretty flexible, but after eleven is better for us._ She's reading the  _what do we need to bring with us?_ What you scrawl down on the paper, about references and physical examination records and tax returns, she'll see later. But she's reading the most important things on your mouth. That it's happening, it's happening, and though you have a long way to go, it's just all becoming so very real.

"Next week." It bursts out of you the second you hit the  _end call_ button on your phone. "Tuesday. Tuesday at noon. Her name is Dina, and she's going to be our social worker, Britt."

"We have a social worker."

Her voice, it's light and fluttery, like she can't really breathe. Because  _you_ can't really breathe. Tears well up in her eyes, and you think maybe yours match, you don't even know. Your body, it feels numb, almost, like it needs to, in order to keep itself from imploding with all of the emotion, and you get to your feet. You get to your feet, and you climb into her chair with her, knees bracketing her thighs, face level with hers. It's a compulsion, you think, to wrap your arms around her, to kiss her, to just, let her hold you. You're shaking a little. It's not that you thought your initial application would be rejected, that's not it at all, it's just now that you know that it  _wasn't,_ you need to celebrate with your wife, in your own quiet way. You need to press your hands to her cheeks and your lips to hers. You need to laugh into her mouth, so she feels the vibrations tickle her throat. You need to feel her hands, tangling in her hair, pulling you closer, closer, because she's just as elated about this as you are. You need to just  _be,_ to just revel, where no words are even fit to exist, and a long while passes. A long while passes, before either of you even feel the urge to speak, to discuss the details, to figure out how, in under a week, you're supposed to prepare for this.

"Do you think. That— that we need more books?" She asks you, and you can't help it but laugh. You can't help it, because you think that might actually be the last thing either of you need to do.

You've both read a  _lot_ , because it's been the only way you could really begin to prepare, and you share the books with each other. Your Brittany, you're just, amazed by her really. She struggles with reading, you know she does. It takes her a lot of time to get through the pages, she's told you, because her mind has trouble sometimes, keeping up with her eyes, but it hasn't stopped her. The stack on your bookshelf grows every week, books about adoption, about same-sex parenting, adult books, children's books, whatever you can find. And then there are the ones that Brittany finds, that she reads, so extra carefully, the ones about hearing children and deaf parents. The ones that you read too, because you know they're important, so important, to her, and to you too.

"I think we might be okay with the ones we have." You kiss her chin, just because. "It seems like, at least for the first one, she just wants to get to know us a little."

"Do you think we're. Prepared though? I— I don't think I've ever been so nervous about anything in my life. She's going to decide if we. Get a baby. I feel. I don't even know how I feel. Happy, so happy, but I'm scared to be."

"I know. I know exactly what you mean, Brittany. I don't want to get my hopes up, but I think, I really do, that we're a great family for a baby. Look at us, we have so much love to give. We have a bedroom, all ready and waiting to be filled. And we've got all the practical things covered too, they'll have you at home while I'm at work, we've got money in the bank, we're both law abiding citizens. I just, I think, Britt, that there's no reason we won't be approved. I think we can be excited, because we're moving along."

"I did. A lot of research, about Otis." Her hands itch to cover her face and her voice is quiet, caught a little in her throat. You know, you know, despite all your assurances, she's still concerned that it'll be because of  _her_ that you don't get approved. You know that it's embarrassing for her, when she fills out things about health conditions, when she has to explain her dog. That doesn't change in this process either, but it's okay, you watch her work through it, and you help her when you can.

"Oh yeah?" You ask, urging her to continue. Her fingers play with a string hanging from the back of your shirt, and you smile softly, reassuring her. "What did you find out?"

"He'll tell me when he hears crying. It's. It's one of the things he was trained for. And. I just. I didn't know it. Because I didn't think I'd ever need it."

"That's awesome, Sweetheart." You look at Otis, and you feel that same swell of gratitude that you always do, whenever he does something that makes Brittany's life easier, whenever having him helps to boost her fragile self esteem.

"I know that. That we're going to get a vibrating monitor. But knowing that Otis will be able to help, it just— it makes me feel a lot more secure. I know it's silly, but. I just, I trust him more than electronic stuff, I always have."

"Hey. It's not silly at all. And, you know, these are the kinds of things that I think Dina's going to want to know. That we've put a lot of thought into the way things will work for us. I think any child that comes into our family is going to be extra lucky, Britt. They'll have the two of us to love them, and this guy, too." Otis, lying beneath her feet, lifts his head when you crook your finger, and you scratch behind his ears, you kiss the top of his head, and he looks up at you, his doggy grin on his mouth. "What do you think of that, Otis? You're going to help us out, if we have a baby?"

"I'm pretty sure he's going to love that, Santana." Her eyes, those universe eyes, they flicker with this softness, one that comes when she feels her fears dissipate, when she knows, she knows she'll be able to do something and do it well. You see it, whenever she finishes a painting. You see it, when she successfully executes a new recipe. You see it, when she puts a smile on your face with those little things she does. And you love that, and you love that you're going to see it, so many times, as you learn to mother together. And you hope, you hope so much, that you'll get to see those moments in the eyes of your child, too.

"What do you think of you and I taking a ride out to Ventnor this afternoon?" You feel this urge, suddenly, to get in the car with her, to drive out to the beach. It's been awhile since you've really done anything, just for the two of you, between the house, and the planning, and everything else. "We'll grab a bottle of wine, have an early dinner at the Red Room, then walk on the beach. It shouldn't be busy, we've still got a few weeks until Memorial Day."

"You've got work in the morning, though. You're sure you want to drive back late like that?"

"So I'll be little tired." You shrug, and you kiss her lips. "We haven't had a real date in a while, and I think it'll be good, take the stress out of waiting for next week. And then maybe tomorrow, when I come home from work ready for a nap, you'll get in bed with me."

"I'd like that a lot. I think, it'll be good too."

For a little longer, you stay where you are, just comfortable on Brittany's lap, as you are, before you go inside and start getting ready. You change out of your work clothes, while Brittany makes coffee, and tosses sweatshirts and a bottle of white wine in a bag. She's beautiful, while you're driving, sunglasses on, the window down and wind blowing through her hair. You can't help but steal glances at her, while you drive, and she smiles. She smiles with all of her teeth showing, and you trace your fingers on her thigh, you write there, that she's beautiful. In response, she giggles a little, and it's a beautiful sound, how carefree she gets, when it's just you, in the car on a long drive. When you'd first started dating, you'd worried, truly, about what to do in the car without really being able to talk, but now, after almost three years since you'd first had her in there— a car you're thinking about replacing, maybe, with something a little newer— it's become something you really love to do, to just drive, far out of the city. Because you don't need words with Brittany, you think, sometimes your best conversations happen in the silence.

You make it to the beach in time for an early dinner. You have two glasses of wine, and a whole lot of pasta, and you hold Brittany's hand on the table. You love working on the house, you love planning for your future together, but there's also something to be said for this, for sitting in the here and now. For talking about nothing big, for not talking at all. And you cherish those moments, the moments that will be fewer and farther between, if all goes according to plan. After you share a piece of cheesecake, you pull your sweatshirts over your jeans, and Brittany wraps you up in her arms as you walk down to the beach. Before you get back in the car, you want to walk off the rest of the alcohol in your system, and you kick off your Converse, hers in purple, yours in red, and step into the evening-cool sand. The sun is low in the sky, and the cool wind off the ocean bites your cheeks, but it's nice, being down there, mostly alone, Otis running a few feet in front of you. Brittany squeaks a little, when she lets the water lap her feet, and she squeezes you a little tighter as she does. She looks out at the ocean, and you can tell, she's painting in her mind, she's thinking of the colors in her paint box, mixing them, streaking them across canvas, creating.

"I love the beach." She turns back to you, and the colors, they glow in her eyes. "It's. It makes me happy. Here. It reminds me of—"

_I love you._ You sign to her, knowingly, and she nods, smile spreading bigger, bigger.

"It was. The perfect day for me. I was so hesitant about. About letting you into my life. I just, I mean. You know I'd never dated anyone before. I thought maybe you were having fun, or just. I don't know, testing things out. I didn't think you were, a bad person. I knew you had a good heart. From the minute we sat in that coffee place. But, I didn't know that you felt as strongly as I did. I didn't even know what I was feeling. Not really. And then, you just, you told me you love me. But. More than that, you held my hand and you let me do this—" She wiggles her toes in the water below her, and you giggle a little. "I like when we come here, because it makes me remember the first time I ever felt like I could do anything. You show me that all the time now. But— but there's something special— I don't know. I'm just glad that we came tonight. I needed this."

"Me too, Sweetheart. I know that you give me a lot of credit for helping you do things that you never thought you could, but that's all you. I'm just here, always, holding your hand." You bring it to your lips, and you kiss the back of her hand. "And having you holding mine makes me more sure of everything, too. I can't even tell you how excited I am to be doing this next big thing with you."

"We've done a lot. In a really short amount of time, haven't we?"

"Yeah we have. And we've got a whole lot more to do." You stand on your tiptoes and you kiss her. You wrap your arms around her neck, and she pulls you closer, the water coming up just to the hem of your jeans as you stand there holding her close. You hear a hum in her throat, that most contented sound as she hugs you tight, and you almost, almost don't hear the whisper that escapes her. You almost don't hear her softest, most hopeful voice.

"I can't wait for all of it with you."


	29. Longer Than the Road That Stretches Out Ahead

**Brittany**

The whole process, it. It begins moving quickly, once you and Santana meet with Dina. She gets to know you both. And you try. You try not to speak with too many pauses. You try not to ask her to repeat herself too much. Santana. Santana, she holds your hand through it all. She translates her speech into sign for you, because she sees you struggling to understand the quick words. She looks at you when you speak too. She gives you tiny, almost imperceptible nods. Assuring you. You picture her words in them.  _Sweetheart, you're doing great, take your time._ Because you always picture the  _Sweetheart_ in your head when you interpret her gestures. You love that word on her lips. It calms you. It always calms you.

You have to get a physical. It absolutely terrifies you. Not the physical part. Well, that does. A little. Too. But. The having to present it to Dina. The having it in your file. That three letter acronym. T. B. I. That four letter word. D. E. A. F. They've felt like black marks for you your entire life, and you just. You don't. You  _can't_ have them be now. Not on this. Not on this most important thing. So you talk to the doctors. Your neurologist and your general practitioner. You ask them if they think you're fit to be a mother. And when they tell you yes. First you cry, both times, in Santana's arms. Because it feels really good to know a professional says that. And then. Then you ask them to write notes. Saying your disabilities won't impact how capable you are. And you hope, you hope it will keep that dreaded black mark away.

Four times. Four times you meet with Dina in her office at the agency. She's teeny tiny, and she has little glasses that are usually on the top of her head. She reviews your legal records, your background checks, even  _Otis'_ background. She takes your references. From Marcus, from Santana's boss, from your literary agent, and even from Carson and his family, because you both thought maybe, maybe it would be nice. To see what kind of people you are. She asks you questions. So many questions. She watches how you interact with Santana. She watches as Santana signs things for you, because, try as you might, there's— there's a lot she says that you struggle to understand. She's stripping you bare, you think. But you don't hate it. Not as much as you thought you would. Because she's not doing it to get too close to you. She's doing it because she needs to know that you're right for a child. So you don't shy away. Or. You try not to. You crisp your words. Best as you can. And you answer, honestly, earnestly. You hold your head up high when you answer questions about your family. Just like Santana does, when she tells Dina that she has no father, no known family besides her mother. And on those nights. Those four nights. In bed. You reassure each other that it's going to be totally fine. That your past, the things you can't control, don't define you. That your experiences with your family, they'll only make you stronger mothers.

After the fourth visit, at the end of September, Dina calls and says that she wants to set up a home visit. You're not sure. Not sure if you're ecstatic that you've reached another. Checkpoint. Of sorts. Or if you're going to collapse with anxiety. Your home. It's nice. It's clean. It's safe. But. You're not an expert. Santana isn't an expert. So you think maybe, maybe, the anxiety is winning. For both of you. Because even she isn't calm, cool, collected. Like she usually is. The weekend before. You go to Buy Buy Baby together. You feel strange and out of place in there. You've both agreed not to look at baby things. Not yet. So you bypass the cute clothes and strollers and toys. You go to the home safety section. Because that feels important to have done. For Dina to see. To see that you're serious. About your maybe future child's safety. You buy latches and locks for cabinets and drawers. For toilet seats. For the oven and refrigerator. You buy window locks and covers for plugs. You buy anchors that keep heavy furniture from tipping. You spend Saturday together, installing everything. Santana, cursing, you think. From the look on her face as she struggles. And on Sunday, you go to brunch, and you have one more mimosa than you normally would. Because it's a lot. You're overwhelmed. And having that third drink, then walking around Reading Terminal for a few hours, Santana's arm wrapped around you, it helps to settle your rising nerves.

When the day comes, Santana, she has to work in the morning. You'd cleaned the whole house together the day before, but. But you can't help yourself. You have to do it again. And. You want to bake cookies. You'd burn a candle, too, a vanilla one. Except you're not sure if that will show you're safe. So you're going to skip it. The kitchen floors. You want to scrub them again. You just. You need it to be perfect. You can't leave any stones unturned. Even though it's clean. You think. You think of a baby, crawling there. And. And you have to do it again. Really get into the grout. Once the cookies are in the oven, you get the scrub brush. You work every inch of it. And when Santana comes home, you're still on your hands and knees. Your hands, they're maybe a little raw, and you might have burned the inside of your wrist on the top of the oven, pulling out a tray of cookies. But you don't know how to channel your anxiety another way. It's not. It's not really obsessive compulsive. It's just. The way you've always handled your highest stress.

You'd seen the lights flash, indicating Santana's arrival, but it hadn't stopped you in your work. Her presence doesn't stop you. Not until you feel her hand on the small of your back, making you jump, just a little. You lift your head up, and her brow. It's furrowed in concern. Her lashes, dark and thick. They open and close rapidly. And she pauses a minute. Before she speaks. She pauses a little, and she looks you over. Hair fallen out of your messy bun and into your face. Old work clothes, covered in both bleach stains and paint stains. And she takes the brush from you, she drops it in the bucket, and she takes your hand and helps you to your feet.

_Are we serving those cookies on the floor?_ She tries to joke. And even though you can't hear the tone of her voice. You know, you know it fell flat.  _Did you spill something?_

"No. I just. I had some time. And. The grout. I figured. I don't know."

_Hey._ She smiles. Soft. So soft. So loving. So everything.  _Why don't you go take a shower? I'll put all of this away. The floor looks really good. The house looks even better than when I left._

"Okay. Okay, yeah." You nod, and you kiss her lips. Saying hello. The way she gets you, it's just, something else, really. She doesn't chastise you for being a little crazy. She doesn't do anything except. Except take your hand and calm you. Make you feel just. Just like it's going to be okay. And that's all you need. Really.

Santana, she stands up with you. She traces her thumb over the shell of your ear, and. You kiss her again. Love. Gratitude. Hope. Hope that it all goes well. Because this. This is the last step. Before you get approved. Before they release your information. To pregnant women, searching for a family for the unborn baby they carry. To the foster care system, looking for parents for babies who have already been born. You think, you think, that second option, it might be what happens for you. You just. You have a sort of feeling. You don't know why. But you do. You kiss Santana again. Again, again. Your wife's lips, they're a balm. Such a soothing balm, for your every insecurity, and she holds you there, for just a moment. Before she looks down at your hands, and she frowns, deeply, at the little burn, at the chafing.

_Take your time in there, sweetheart._ She kisses your forehead. She rubs her nose with yours.  _You've been so worried taking care of everything that you're forgetting to take care of the most important thing, you._   _We have plenty of time left, just relax in there. Please?_

"Do you want to. Maybe take one with me?" You ask her, feeling a little sheepish. But. But you just. Really want to be intimate with your wife like that right now. Not in a sexual way. That's not where your deepest intimacies come. You just want skin pressed to skin. You want her fingers in your hair, your hands, lathering her skin. That. That'll calm you more than anything else, you think.

_Of course, Britt. Go ahead in, and I'll meet you there in a few minutes._

Otis follows you into the bathroom. He finds his place in the corner, and he lies down. You undress, and you revel in the feeling of the hot water seeping into your skin, swirling away bleach and sweat and the flour that ended up in your hair. The lights flash, when Santana comes into the room, and it doesn't take long for her to shed her work clothes and open the curtain. She shivers, before she steps beneath the spray with you. And. You feel your whole body sigh when her naked skin presses to your naked skin. Taking her time, she washes your hair. She knows how much you love it when she does. Whenever you make the time to shower together. The pads of her fingers, they massage your scalp, behind your ears, your whole head. Then you wash her body. Slow. Loving. You press your lips to her throat. Your feel her pulse beat against them. And by the time you're finished, you feel like. Like you're melting. Limp. Soft. Comfortable. The way you think, maybe, you need to be, at least at the start of the visit.

You take your time getting ready. You check the clock, and, you still have over an hour. So you take turns with the blow dryer. You put a little makeup on. Though you don't, not very often. You pull on a skirt. A t-shirt. Some ankle boots. Because you're being  _you._ You won't feel comfortable in one of the dresses like Santana wears, though she. She looks so pretty in them. And when she turns to you, smoothing the front of the one she's wearing, you, you tell her as much. She smiles. Ducking her head a little. Before she looks back into your eyes. Before she tells you that you're beautiful. Before she kisses your forehead. Just because.

She lit a candle. Before she got in the shower. You bite back a little smile when you see it. Flickering on the counter. Flickering like her eyes. Because you don't want to tell her about your silly thoughts. Not until later. The smell of bleach is gone. The kitchen. The whole house, really, smells like vanilla. Smells like a home that's welcoming. She'd put the cookies on a plate on the counter. And it just looks ready, so ready for Dina's visit. You still have time, just a little, and you sit down on the couch. You don't talk. You don't need to. It's better like this. It's better sitting peacefully. Breathing in your wife, under the smiling portrait of the two of you on your wedding day. Otis, resting comfortably on his bed. This home. Your home. It's happy. It's safe. It's full of love. And. And you think. You think Dina will see the same thing.

When the doorbell lights flash, you stiffen, just a little, in Santana's arms. She does too, you think. Sheputs on a brave face for you, all the time, but she's nervous too. She has butterflies, for sure. You tell Otis to stay, that it's okay, and, together. Together you go down the stairs. Santana, she sucks in a breath, you think, before she opens the door. You both. You try not to look to stiff. Too rigid. You try to be natural. Like you'd planned. But your mind. It's working faster than it knows how. So it's difficult. When the door opens, you both smile. And you hope, you hope, it doesn't come off Stepford-like. You hope you look genuine. Because you are. You're so genuine. More than anything, you want this woman. The one who determines if you're fit to have a child. To feel your hospitality.

Before you lead Dina upstairs to the living room, you feel Santana's finger on your hand, drawing a quick heart. You need it. She needs it. And you fill your lungs, before you usher the social worker up the stairs. She sits down on the couch, laying out some paperwork, and you go to the kitchen. You make coffee, because it keeps your hands busy. You make coffee, because Dina accepted your offer, and you'd put your hand on Santana's forearm, when she'd moved to stand first. You make coffee, because it's always a go-to for you. When it's finished, you pour three cups. You put them on a tray, cream, sugar, cookies, all there with them, and you set it down, before finding your place next to Santana. You find your place, and her hand, it finds yours, immediately. Her eyes, they flicker, they flicker with a whole mix of emotions. And you squeeze her hand, you squeeze it tight.

"Do you need anything else, Dina? Water? Juice? Did. Do. Do you want me to make you a sandwich? I made chicken salad earlier. And. There's plenty left."

_No thank you, Brittany. The coffee and cookies are great._

_She makes the best._ Santana, she beams at you, and you feel the tips of your ears burn. Burn hot.

_Well, you might need a lot of it…baby on your hands._ You nod to Santana that you got the gist of what she'd said, and, at the words, you feel such a bloom inside of you. You think of what your mom used to say, a long time ago,  _before_ , when you'd wanted to do something and she couldn't commit to a yes,  _a strong maybe._ And you hope, you hope maybe that's what Dina is telling you. Because you got this far, and—

"We're. We're used to odd hours." You manage, hating how your words are getting stuck in your throat.

_Yes, Santana's job…for them._ Dina purses her lips, and you think, she's the hardest person to read, both her lips, and her entire persona.  _So today…going to…tour of your house…neighborhood. Check…safety._

_We're happy to show you around._ Santana, she keeps checking with you, because you'd told her, how hard it is for you to understand sometimes, maybe because you just, you spend so little time around strangers, and you keep nodding that you're okay, though she signs her own words anyway. She signs her own words. Even though the speed at which she speaks to you, it's become mostly her natural cadence.

"It really. Feels like home for us now. After almost a year."

When Dina finishes her coffee, you stand first. You just. You feel like you need to lead the way, and. Santana is happy to follow you. Watching Dina with her clipboard. You start upstairs. You show her the kitchen. With all the safety locks, the ones Santana is still struggling to figure out and that you. You sat with on Monday morning while she was at work, learning. Santana tells her you've measured everywhere for gates, especially at the top of the stairs. You go through the rooms, your bedroom, your bathroom. Neat. Safe. Secure. And you hold your breath when you go into the empty bedroom. It's. It's strangely hard. While you're waiting for it to be filled. It's sunny and bright and cozy, so cozy. A place for a little child to grow up. And it makes a lump in your throat. It makes Santana graze her hand over your lower back, because she feels the same.

You show her the alcove, and the tiny closet, where you'll lock your paints away. Dina, she asks. She asks about guns. Which Santana tells her you don't have. That you'll never have. She asks about any standing water and. And you shudder. Because. Because you're not sure you'll be able to stomach having so much as a baby pool out on the patio. And. And you and Santana, you've been. Been talking a lot about bathing. Bathing a baby. About you, getting more used to taking them on your own, because, you think it might help you. To prepare. To not be so afraid. Because they only fit in those tiny tubs for so long, and, you. You don't know. You might have a baby come into your family who's already grown out of it. Santana presses her hand into your side then. And she tells Dina, water safety is important to you. And she gives you a minute to collect yourself. Talking about tub thermometers, you think, you're not totally watching her. But you know there's already one in your bathroom cabinet, just in case.

Santana takes over leading, at your silent request. She shows Dina her mom's room. She tells her. She tells her again that her mom is only forty-seven. Because you don't have a lot of people, and, and. You want her to know that. That Maribel will still be young, even when a baby born right now turns eighteen. In case, in case. And you want her to know that you'll have help, when you need it. From someone who knows how to love a child in the deepest way. For someone whose whole life went to raising your wife. You head into the backyard, and Santana demonstrates the locks, on the door, on the gate to the street. She tells her about your garden. And you smile, your nerves, simmering back down, when your wife beams at you, telling Dina about all the things you'd made from your garden over the summer. About the pie pumpkins, that are almost ready now. You picture it. You picture it again, because Santana has said it once. About learning to make baby food, with you. About. About a little one. With dirty hands, helping you out. And Santana, she gives you a knowing look.

You're exhausted, when Dina leaves. Her paperwork, her clipboard, all packed up, and you don't know what's on it. You know that Santana, she's tired too. Neither of you had really slept, last night. Tossing. Turning. Nervous about this whole thing. And all day, you've been running on adrenaline, and now. Now it's over, and you just. Collapse onto the couch, and melt into the cushions. Santana isn't long to follow you. Her body, curling into yours, all of the rigidness of being her public self softening the moment her head tucks itself under your chin. Otis, he looks for permission to come up with you too, and you grant it, letting him lay his head in your lap. Watching. Watching as Santana absently scratches his ears, while you scratch her side. You just. You need this, this moment. Just them. To decompress from all of what your day was.

"I. I think it was good." You say, after a long while. At the sound of your voice, she brings herself out from the blissful reverie that she's fallen into, and pulls her legs up beneath her on the couch. Turning her whole body to you. She knows. She knows it's easier for you to talk to each other like that. And, you follow suit, sitting across from her, knees bumping. "What do you think?"

_I think._ Santana, she taps her head, and you wonder. You wonder if she notices the way she always raises her eyebrows. The way her lips, they always curl up, just, in the slightest way, whenever she signs that. It's really. There's something just, so adorable about that, you don't know why.  _She likes us. And I think you're right, it was good._

"We're very safe. And. And I think she can see that we're really happy. Together. In our home."

_I would say anyone could see that. If she listens to my show, she knows for sure._

"Because you tell all of Philadelphia that you love me." You laugh, you laugh a lot, because your wife. She's. She's kind of a goof. The sweetest kind of goof.

_Important news, Britt. It's my duty to report the facts._

"If you say so." Her eyes, they crinkle, her dimples, they pop out. And she's relaxed, so relaxed, in a way you feel like you haven't seen her in months. In a way neither of you have  _felt_ in months. But it's over. You can't stress about what you need to do. Not right now. It's over and done, and now, now there's nothing you can do but wait. Wait. Wait for a decision. If it's a good one, wait for…wait for your child. Yours and hers. A little Lopez.

_What are you thinking about?_ She brushes her thumb over the creases on your forehead, and you realize. You realize you zoned out a little.

"Just. All the things."

_That's a lot of things, Sweetheart._ The fire in her eyes, it dances, and you. You suck your lips into your mouth. She knows, she knows. She's just. Being silly.  _I'm glad it's good things._

"The best things." You lean in. You kiss her lips. You feel her hand press against the side of your face. Her thumb, stroking beneath your earlobe. That— that most intimate place she touches you. "I was thinking. About preparing, and— I mean, not until after we get a decision. But, I think. We should start then, looking at things. Even though it could be awhile before we even, I mean—"

_Hey, take your time._ Santana encourages, as you start tripping over your words. Over your great big thoughts.  _Just me._

"I. Okay." You breathe. You breathe in so deeply, and your eyelids flutter close, just for a few seconds. "Remember in the beginning. When Dina said that it could take a long time. But, when it happens, it could happen really fast?"

_I do._ She nods, taking the opportunity to rub her palms up and down your arms.

"So. So I was thinking. I don't want us. To have to rush. You know? We've been, not jinxing things. But, if you're okay with it. I think. I think maybe we should start looking at baby things. Like. A pediatrician, and, I don't know, the safest car seats and strollers, and the best diapers. Not, buying anything. But. Maybe. Maybe we start making lists? So. So we have the ideas ready." You know the creases in your brows are deeper than usual. But there's just. There's so much to think about, and. You're a planner. You know that there's a lot you won't be able to plan. If. When. You have a child. The things you can though, you just want to get started on them. "Do you think that's a bad idea? Do you think—- it's setting us up for disappointment?"

_No. No I don't. You and I, we've both been patient, for a lot of things, our whole life. And our patience, it brought us each other. It brought us this life we have now. If we're patient just a little longer, it's going to bring us a child too. I don't—_ She pauses, and she searches you with her eyes. The deep brown of hers, smoldering, almost.  _I don't pray. You know that. My mom didn't either, even though she accepted a lot of church charity when I was a kid. But, she taught me about hope, and about visualization. So every night before I fall asleep, I close my eyes, and the thing I visualize, it's you. It's you, sitting on that swing out back with someone small in your arms. They don't have a face or a name or a personality yet, in my head, but they're definitely ours. That's what I fall asleep to every night, watching you, rocking our child to sleep, on a summer night, at dusk, crickets in the garden, the smell of your tomato plants. And I love you more, for something that hasn't even happened yet. I can't even explain that, except that I know it's real, even if it's a few years off._

"Three and a half years, and you still—" You choke back the tears that gather in the back of your throat. Because this woman. She's just. Something else entirely. "You still get me with those love words, Santana."

_You use your share of them too._ She combs your bangs from your forehead. And her whole face. It scrunches up.  _And I think you're right. I think, setting some plans in place is a good idea. Some people have a whole pregnancy to prepare for their child, but we'll have this. This waiting period. To figure things out, to spend special time, just the two of us, because it won't always be just us._

"It won't." You chew your bottom lip a little, before Santana uses her thumb to ease it free of your trap. "So now. We just. We wait."

_We wait, and we hope, and we visualize. Because I think, I really think, it's all so close to being real._


	30. And So All the Night, You'll Be Mine

**Santana**

The approval of your home study, it comes quickly. You're having lunch with Jonas and his now-serious girlfriend less than two weeks after, when Dina calls you, and you and Brittany, you end up in the ladies room of the restaurant, so you can talk to her. When you tell Brittany what she'd said— though she knew, she knew, from your face, from your little hops, while you were on the phone— you muffle each other's squeals of excitement with kisses. Jonas, he knows you've chosen to adopt. You'd told him obviously, when you'd asked him to write you a reference letter, but still, the specifics of all of it, you're keeping them to yourselves. Only your mother knows, really. Only your mother knows, because you and Brittany both, you'd decided that as you continue your journey to motherhood, the support of an actual mother, your actual mother, it's important to you. But everyone else, you're waiting, waiting. Because it could be months. It could be years even, before the dream becomes a reality, especially considering you're same-sex parents, and when it comes to birth mothers, you might not be a first choice, and you just can't bring yourselves to discuss it with anyone else.

The fall passes in its usual manner, apple picking, pumpkin picking—- both Brittany's at home, and a few big ones to decorate your stoop that you'd picked when you'd gone out to Lancaster for the day— festivals and the like. And the Christmas season follows at the same speed. All throughout, you and Brittany, you work on your baby lists. You join a Rittenhouse Square parents' board online, as silent members, for now, just to be able to see recommendations of doctors, of products, since it seems like the best way to decide what to even look at. You drive to Buy Buy Baby occasionally. You test out strollers and carriers. You nitpick the safety of them. You take an infant and child first aid class, at Brittany's suggestion, because she knows, and you know too, that CPR, it's a must-know in your home, that CPR, it saved your wife's life all those years ago. And then you wait, you wait, as patiently as you can. You wait, and you enjoy the company of just each other— as you always do, really.

You spend Christmas in Queens. Your mom wanted to do it this year, and you're happy to let her. You see a few of her friends. This is the first time you've met them, since she usually wants all her time with you to herself. But it's nice, it's nice to see that she has her own things going on, and it's nice, the way they're so kind and welcoming to you and Brittany both— though they do that fast-talking Queens thing, the thing you've really trained yourself out of, mostly, and you sign as quickly as you can for Brittany, keeping her in touch with the conversation. It's a nice holiday really, but, you're actually anxious, afterward, for some alone time with Brittany. Because the lead up, it's always such a chaotic time for you, with your fundraising and your shopping and your dinner. It was perfect, you think, that you and Brittany had chosen to get married when you had, since it builds in your anniversary at the best possible time. It gives you an excuse to decompress, to enjoy each other's company, when in the months before, it's hard for you to do that.

She plans it this year. Neither of you ski, but she finds a tiny resort in Vermont. Something about it, she's drawn to, and you think it's great. You think, being in the wilderness, surrounded by snow, it's the perfect, peaceful place to mark the beginning of the third year of your marriage. So you pack. You pack your warmest things. Flannel and thermal everything. Otis' boots. A parka that Brittany found for him, because he's getting older, and she likes to make sure he's as warm as he can be. You pack your favorite champagne, in case you can't find it there, and you get in the car, you make the long drive up, arriving just after dark on the first of the year. You check into your room, a little cabin, actually, and your breath, it's stolen by the effort your wife put in. Your breath, it's stolen by the arrangement of flowers on the table, your favorites, peonies and lilies. Your breath, it's stolen by the big bed, the inviting fireplace where Otis finds a place to lie, to warm up, the simple romance of the place, in a way that really reflects your relationship with Brittany. Soft, warm, not at all showy, and once the concierge leaves you, showing you how to light the gas fireplace on his way out, you pull your wife to you, you kiss her, you kiss her with everything in your very soul.

_You like it?_  she signs to you, her joy, creeping to the corners of her mouth, and you nod. You nod emphatically.

_Love it. Love you._  You brush your thumb over the shell of her ear, and you kiss her again. You work the zipper of her coat, you just, don't even know what to do, because she's overwhelmed you, with what she's done. And her eyes, those universe eyes, they're so full of excitement, that you feel like you're truly reeling.  _Perfect_.

"I'm glad. I asked them to set up the flowers."

"I figured." You laugh. You laugh because she's so sweet. You laugh because she's so earnest. You laugh, just because you've been married to this perfect woman for two years, and she's the greatest thing that's ever happened to you.

"Rose petals seemed. Too cheesy. But. They said they would, if you want them."

"I don't. The flowers are beautiful, sweetheart, and if you would have had rose petals, I wouldn't have thought it was cheesy because it's you. But right now, I don't want anyone coming in here and spreading them, because, I think there's something I'd much rather be doing."

_What's that?_  she signs, a rare glint of mischief in her eyes.

"You." You press your lips to hers, and the word hums against them, vibrating, vibrating in her throat. She doesn't need to see it to know. She feels it, in the tug of your teeth on her bottom lip. In the way you shrug your coat off your shoulders and work her zipper again. And she smiles. She smiles into her mouth. The gasp, catching as you press your body into hers.

You leave your suitcases packed where they'd been dropped by the door, and your clothes, they're left in a trail to the bedroom. For only seconds does your mouth leave Brittany's, while tugging off sweaters and the thermal shirts beneath them. There's something, something, that stirs you, more than your wife's mere presence normally does, and the butterflies, they go wild within you, making your whole body vibrate with their fluttering wings. Brittany, she somehow manages to pull loose the bedspread, and she tumbles down on downy sheets, still holding you in her grasp. She feels it, too. The love that makes her heart pound, erratic, but sure, so sure, against her ribcage and into yours. She feels it, you can tell, and then there's nothing that separates you as you straddle her hips, weaving hands through golden locks.

The way she looks at you, universe eyes, deep, dark, endless, as she fills her lungs with air, you think sometimes, you won't survive it. It's something, something that you know, few are lucky enough to experience. Unbridled love. Unbridled trust. This intimacy that twines your very souls together and leaves you forgetting where you end and she begins. Those eyes, they draw you in like nothing else, and you kiss her, kiss her until she's breathless. You kiss her, kiss her, as she presses the flat of her hand to your throat, feeling your pulse, feeling your gasps, feeling your reverberating moans, just from the contact of her warm skin on yours. This girl.  _Your_  girl. She's something else. She's the very best of everything you've ever known. This girl, you married her, on a snowy winter day, two years ago, and in every day since, you've loved her more.

When you kiss her neck, she whines. High pitched, carnal, desperate, already, and the way she's unabashed in her want, you can't describe what that does to you. You can't describe the way it makes you shiver with arousal, from the ends of your hair, right down to the very tips of your toes. To know, to know, that you can have that effect on someone, that very same effect she has on you, it's ethereal, almost, and it spurs you further. Because each and every time you make love to your wife, you know the bliss it brings. So you kiss her skin, you taste all that is truly  _Brittany_ , and you draw love hearts on her sides with your fingers. You slide lower, lower, until you're between her legs, and you push her knees so they lie flat against the bed beneath you. She shudders then, she always does, desire taking over her, when she's exposed to you, only you, in her barest form. And you stop, just for a moment. You stop, so you can find her hand, you can squeeze it, you can bring it to tangle in your hair. There's something about that for you, giving her this sense of control, the control she never takes advantage of, and she strokes your face, strokes your face so softly with the other. The love and trust that courses between you, the very foundation of your marriage.

"So beautiful." She whispers, though you're not sure she even knows she's said it. She's in this state she gets in. Almost out of body, you think. Flushed, prickled skin, those universe eyes, with pupils so wide they're like black holes, and her limbs, trembling, shaking,  _seeking_. Seeking you, seeking that much needed contact.

And you give it to her. You take her hand from you face, and you kiss the palm of it. For just a few seconds, you let that kiss linger there, before you settle it at her side. And you lift her hips up to you. You bring your mouth down upon her. You bring your tongue through her center, and you taste her. It makes you lightheaded, dizzy almost, that combination of your own arousal rushing through your veins, and tasting hers, and you hum, you hum in pleasure against her, making her shiver all the more. You work her up, and you don't stop, you can't stop. Not as you watch her eyes fight to stay open, not as her fingers in your hair wind tighter, tighter, grasping, but never pulling. Not as her whines become more animalistic, reverberating through the very center of your being. Not as she comes undone, shaking, crying out. You just slow then. Your frantic motions, they turn gentle, soothing, as you bring her down, as you feel her fingers loosen, as you watch her, spent, collapse against the down pillows.

She pulls you up to her. She aches, she aches— she's told you before, shy, blushing, stumbling over her words— to taste herself on your lips. And you comply. You lie over her, your dark hair, tumbling down to curtain your faces as you kiss her, and her tongue parts your lips, mapping the inside of her mouth. You feel it then, her shift, you feel her body rejuvenate, almost, beneath you, as your nipples brush hers and your hair tickles her neck. You watch the lazy universe in your sight turn vibrant again, as she rolls on top of you, as she doesn't hesitate to spread your legs, to seek out your wetness with her fingertips. She's possessed, almost, with the need to make you feel good. But, you already do. You already feel so good, from unravelling her. You're already so aroused, that you think, maybe, you'll come undone before she dips inside of you. She knows this, she sees it, you know, in your eyes. She feels it, where her hand presses again to your throat, the vibrations of your every plea running through her body. So she doesn't waste time. She presses two fingers inside of you. She curls them fast, and you hiss. You hiss against her neck and she feels it. She feels it, and she repeats her motion, making you cant your hips up. Pleading, pleading without words for her to never stop.

You're unsurprised by how quickly you come, your thighs tightening, trapping her forearm between them. You gasp and pant, your skin, sweaty, sticky, and your mind, somewhere far off, somewhere that the universe sparkles blue. You don't realize it, but you fall asleep. Or, you pass out, more likely, your legs twined around Brittany's waist, your forehead pressed against hers. And she holds you, she holds you tight, still inside of you, like she'll never let you go. When you wake up again, you don't know how much time has passed. It's still dark, you know that much, but Brittany is lying on her side. Her fingers, they trail up and down your bare side, and a blanket covers you both. She looks at you, your beautiful wife, she looks at you, the way she does, only in bed. Because her eyes, her universe eyes, they're always full of love, but they're something different when she lies on her side, watching you sleep, or almost sleep, or wake, depending. They're a special kind of adoration, and you barely have your eyes open when your lips curl up into a tiny smile, your body warm, warm, warm, and not from the blankets that she's covered you with.

"Hi, sleepy." She murmurs, her voice scratchy, sexy. She doesn't stop the tickling of her fingers on your side, and you maybe, maybe purr, just a little, because you love that feeling, you love it a lot. You tap your wrist and you scrunch up your face, making her smile. She just, still takes pleasure in your signs, she's told you as much, and though her giggles used to make you self-conscious about it, they don't any more. She's not teasing, not at all, she's just, really happy. "Little after eight."

"Bad time of day to take a nap. Did you sleep at all?"

"No, just laid with you. You looked so relaxed and pretty."

"Britt." Your eyelids, they flutter, and your chin tucks a little. "You could have woken me up."

"I. I thought about it. A little." She bites her lip, thinking, and you kiss her chin, encouraging her to free it from her teeth. She's thinking, considering, you know, and you give her the time, just a little, it's all she needs, to gather her thoughts. "There's a. A meteor shower, tonight. I looked it up, because it's so dark up here. But you look so warm. And cozy, I didn't— I didn't want to ask you to get out of bed and go out in the cold."

"Did we miss it?" You feel your eyes widen, and your heart, it sinks a little. Because you know, you know, how much she loves the sky. How much she loves the stars. And you wish, you wish she'd woken you sooner.

"We didn't." Her smile, it's soft, and she kisses away the deep creases in your forehead. "The most of it. It'll be after eleven. But. We don't have to go, Santana. If you're comfortable here."

"I am comfortable here." Your stomach, it growls, and you wonder, you wonder if she feels it against hers. "But I'll also be comfortable outside, with you. Remember the falling stars, the night you proposed?"

"Yes. I thought. It might be extra nice. Because it's our anniversary. In just a few hours."

"It sounds like the perfect start to our next year of marriage." You watch, you watch her eyes dance, and you brush her bangs away from her face. You groan, just a little, when you shift, and realize, her other hand is still tucked between your legs, and her cheeks, they tighten and they turn pink, until you kiss them, over and over again. "Might be too cold for a picnic this time though, so we should eat dinner first."

While you get dressed, you're particularly touchy. Maybe it's your anniversary that does it, or maybe, maybe, it's just the quiet of your little cabin, the coziness, that fills you will an amplified need to have Brittany close to you. You pull on knee socks and leggings and jeans. You bury yourself in Brittany's sweatshirt, the one that conveniently found its way into your suitcase, and your ever-efficient wife, she manages to unpack and organize everything, in the time you spend in the bathroom, taming your mane of hair and brushing your teeth. You slip into her arms when you come out, burying your face in her neck, just, standing there, needy for her embrace. It's your favorite place in the world, that there's no denying. Because her kisses, they're perfect, her lovemaking, it takes you places you've never been, but the way she hugs you, it just, wraps your whole being, heart, body and soul, in this safety, this security, that you find yourself unable to explain.

Once you're covered in your warm weather clothes and your boots are on, Brittany hooks Otis' leash on, and she slips an arm around your waist, locking up the cabin and leading the way to the lodge. You eat your late dinner quickly, and Brittany, prepared, fills a thermos with hot chocolate. The hill she brings you to, it overlooks the ski slopes, and the black sky stretches out above you. Together, you spread a blanket out on the hard packed snow, and you lie down on it together, Otis huddling in with you for his own warmth. You play with Brittany's fingers, you write on her hand, telling her you love her, and you wait, you wait for the universe— the one above you, not the one in your wife's eyes— to burst before you. It's slow at first, when it does, lone stars streaking across the sky, and then, then there's so many, all at once. It's funny, you think, the way you've grown to love them, these things you'd never even thought to look at before, not until Brittany.

"Happy anniversary, Santana." You feel her mumble into your hair, and you shift your body, you shift it and prop your head on your hand, so you can see her face, so she can see yours. Her eyes, they're bright, and you think, you think, there might be tears in them. Tears that make you swallow hard, because being out here, in the snow, under the blanket of raining stars, with the woman you love in this way that shakes the very core of your being, you feel extraordinarily emotional. "These years with you. They're. They're the best. In my whole life. I just—" She pauses, but, you don't speak. You let her continue, because you know she wants to say things. And you do too, but, you'll wait. You'll wait your turn. "It's. I don't know. If funny is the word. But, I always liked the stars. I'd sit in the yard. At my parents' and look at them for hours. Because my mom didn't notice much, if I stayed out there late. The universe. It just seemed, so big. And so far away. But then. Then I met you. And I know, you have all your love words. You tell me the universe, it's— it's in my eyes. For me though. I see it in you. In your everything. You brought this thing that felt so. So far off that it almost wasn't real to me. You made it even bigger than I imagined. I just. I love you, Santana. I love you so big and so much and so. Just. Infinitely. Maybe. Maybe that's the word I need. Because. There's not— not a beginning, or an end. It's there, everywhere. And now it's after midnight and today. Today's the day we got married. So we're celebrating. I celebrate every day though. Because you, you just made my life this wonderful, magical thing."

"Sweetheart." You blink, you blink rapidly, the cold stinging your wet eyes. Because the thing about your wife, is that every single word she speaks, it takes her longer to create than anyone else. A speech like that, it means more than anyone else's ever could. And not just because you love her, love her, love her, more than you think it's even possible to love another person. And there's nothing you can even say that will compare, or even come close, really. So you kiss her instead. You kiss her, because it's the only response you have. You press your cold lips to hers, and you take her in. "You're something special, my amazing wife. I'm glad that you and me, we get to share this universe we created."

"It's a really good one." Her laughter, it mixes with tears, and you wipe them from her cheeks, not wanting them to freeze there.

"The best one. The day I met you was the most amazing day of my life, and then, I married you, and that was an even better one. And in the future, I think there's going to be one that tops even those two."

"Yeah. You're. You're right about that." She gets dreamy, dreamy in her eyes, just for a moment, before she comes back to reality. "But until then, we're going to enjoy every minute. Just. Just the two of us."

"We are. And you're spoiling me with this weekend, I think."

"I just. I wanted. Something really nice for us. We've been putting all of our money into the house. And the Little Lopez fund." Her lips purse, barely noticeable, like they always do, when she says  _Little Lopez_ , and your stomach, it erupts with the butterflies. It doesn't matter how many times you talk about it, it still makes you giddy, so giddy. "But. I thought we deserved a few days. Away from the city, and work. Just, everything but us. And. I got that bonus, taking on this new book series contract. So. I wanted to indulge, just a little. For this."

"I'm glad you did, Brittany. I may have, indulged just a little too." You push yourself up, watching her watch you. You reach inside your coat, and you unzip the pocket there. You search blindly inside, until you find metal, warm from your body, you think, though you can't feel through your gloves, and you slide it out. Brittany's eyes, they widen, and she squeaks, one of those impossibly cute noises she makes, when she sees the ring you'd tucked away in there at the mention of stars. "I know that I've talked about buying you a diamond too before we moved, and you kept saying to put the money into the house instead. But I started thinking about it again when we got approved for adoption, and I just thought, this was the time. This year, this anniversary."

"Santana." She from the ring, to you, that way she does. That way that makes you feel so warm all over. "You. You didn't have to do that."

"I know. But I wanted to. I wanted to two years ago, and I probably should have, even though you told me not to, but now I get my moment under the night sky to give you a ring too."

"You're too much sometimes, you know." She lets you slide her glove off and her ring on above her wedding band, admiring it, until the cold proves too much. You take it between your gloved hands, and you warm it up, letting her look once more at the diamond, sparkling in the light of the night sky, before you cover it up again, and you lace your fingers with hers, her hand, made to fit in yours. "It's— it's perfect. I love it. And I love you. I love you so much."

"And I love you, my Brittany. Happy two years, Sweetheart."


	31. There's No Time When I'm Alone

**Brittany**

The winter, it's cold and dry. You only have one big snow. And on a weekend. So Santana, she's home with you for that. Most of your time, in the cold months, you spend painting. Furiously painting, really. Because the deadline on the first book of the new series you'd signed for. It gives you much less time than you've ever given yourself. But. You're trying to do as much as possible now. Because. Because when, when things progress with your adoption. When there's a baby, for you and Santana, you want to be able to slow down a little. To just. Have less on your plate. While you learn to be a mom. Because that plate, it seems pretty full on its own. So. You'll work in a frenzy now. You'll paint in the middle of the night. Anything, to have at least this one project out of the way.

It's the beginning of April, when you finish, just a few days shy of the deadline. Santana, she loves the art. She always does. But this one, it feels different. The series, it's about a boy and his journeys through the magical forest behind his house. And she tells you, maybe a magic forest in that empty bedroom would be something that would work. That maybe, if you wanted to do some kind of mural, like your book pages, on the walls, she'd like that. It's weird for you, this feeling. You've been painting children's books for so long. But now. Now that you might bring them to life for your own future child. It's a different thing entirely.

You're anxious, waiting to present to the author, one of those meetings you hate, where a translator has to sign nearly everything to you, because it turns out, authors don't look at you. As if your deafness is catching. But it all goes well. He loves your artwork, he says you brought his vision to life. And as you always do for either of your successes, you and Santana, you celebrate with a nice dinner. With champagne. With kisses. With lovemaking. Just you and her. It's all the celebration you need.

At the end of the month, Maribel has a surgery scheduled. Santana has been a nervous wreck, ever since her mother called and said she needed to have an ovarian cyst removed. She's been trying to hide it. But. She's not very good at it, and. You know. You know. This is hard for her. It's impossibly hard. And you're just trying, trying as hard as you can, to do whatever you can to make it easier. So you pack. You pack her things, you pack yours. And while she's at work, the day you're leaving to stay in Queens, until she recovers- only a few days, Maribel had told your wife, something you find her saying and wringing her hands, on more than one occasion- you clean the house, top to bottom. You go to the grocery store, figuring, you can pack a cooler. With groceries. To cook the things your mother-in-law likes. Since it's the only thing you can think to do to help, besides be there to comfort and support your wife.

Santana comes home from work in a frenzy. You can't settle her. She's snappy. You can tell by her facial expressions. Though not intentionally at you, you know that. She's snappy, because she's anxious. She doesn't feel prepared for this. And she looks like she might burst into tears at any given moment. Her mom, she's larger than life to Santana. She's never seen her sick, so the idea of her in a hospital, even for an outpatient surgery. It just freaks her out. But once you can get her to stop pacing, you take her- you take her into your arms. You hold her tight. And you promise her, promise her, everything will be just fine. The two of you, you'll be there to help Maribel with her recovery. And you. You'll be there to hold Santana at night, because you know that's when she'll need it most.

While you double check everything, Santana begins to load the car. She kisses you, soft and sweet, when she sees the cooler full of groceries. Some of her tension, just a little, it melts away. Because she hadn't even thought of it, but it's done. One of those things that partnership is about- like making each other's dreams come true, making each other happy- is that, knowing the tasks your wife will think of, before she even does. She's jittery while she drives. Even your hand on her thigh drawing hearts, like she usually does for you, doesn't calm her. She bangs her fists on the steering wheel in traffic. She just. Wants to be with her mom. You get that. Not from your own experience, but from being with her as long as you've been. And you wish. You wish, there was something, anything, you could do to help her not feel so afraid. Especially, especially because she's so good at doing that for you.

"It's okay, Santana." You say it, while you sit in traffic on the turnpike. You don't tell her it's just routine surgery. You never would. She knows that. But that doesn't make it less scary. She knows that. She doesn't need you to say it. She just needs to hear you tell her you're here. With her. Always. "And I'm here, through all of it. I promise."

Maribel is in great spirits when you get to her house. She tells Santana to stop worrying so much. She tells her. She tells her to stop walking around looking like she's going to cry. But, she also hugs her tight. And she hugs you tight, too. She thanks you for shopping. She tells you she can't wait for your baked chicken and macaroni and cheese, once she's home again- her favorite, favorite, you know. Because just like Santana, she likes simple meals. Santana's still pacing, though she's stopped looking like she's going to cry. Her mom, she goes to bed early, since she says she's hungry, and having to fast, it's better for her just to go to sleep. Once she's closed the bedroom door, you take Santana's hand. She's so full of nervous energy, you know being shut up in the house might make her explode.

So you lead her outside. You wrap your arm around her waist, and she leans her weight on you. Otis, he sticks closer than ever to your side. He always does, in Queens. He's not sure of the environment, and, he wants to make sure you're safe. Santana, she plays with your hair while you walk. She can't keep her hands still, and you don't restrict them. You just. Let her do what she needs to do. But you're there. You're there, you're there. While you walk. When she crawls onto that pullout couch beside you, and buries her head in your chest. When she cries, scary, wracking sobs. Because she's filled herself with fear. You hold her. You soothe her, best as you can. And when she falls asleep, spent, you set her alarm for her. Because tomorrow, it's going to be a long day.

It's rainy and cold in the early morning. She wears jeans and your Phillies sweatshirt. For her to be wearing that, in Mets territory, you know she's all jumbled up inside. You worry, a little, about her driving like that. Eyes a little swollen. But you know she wouldn't. Not if she thought she would be a danger. You give Maribel the front, and you sit in the back with Otis. You watch Santana, in the rearview mirror. You watch her, eyes planted on the road ahead, as she drives to LIJ Hospital. You see Maribel give up talking to her after awhile, because she doesn't respond. Your heart, it breaks for your wife. She's normally so collected. And now, she's worked herself into such a knot. A knot you wish you could untangle her from. When you get to the hospital, you walk inside with Maribel. Santana, she goes to park the car, and you can tell, she wants a little while alone. So you go with her mom. You find seats in the waiting room, while she checks in, and when she's finished. She sits down beside you. She scratches Otis' ears, and she turns her body to face you.

_I almost didn't tell her._  Maribel confesses to you.  _She hasn't gotten like this in a long time._

"I've. I've never seen her upset. Not like this."

_When she was young, she had nightmares about me dying. She woke up screaming so many nights._

"I understand. That feeling. You were her only person. And she loves you. More than I've ever seen anyone love their mom."

_I had my appendix out her second year of college_.

"I know." You have to smile a little, because Santana had told you the story. How her mother had casually mentioned it, three weeks later, because she hadn't wanted her to miss her finals. "I'm glad you told her this time. She's worried. But, being here. It's important. To her. And to me too. You- you taught me more about family in these few years. Than I'd known in my whole life. And we're your family. We should take care of you when you're healing."

_You're so good for her, Brittany. For us. She's told you it before. More than once. But still. Still. It fills you up. It was definitely easier to tell her, knowing you'll be with her the whole time. I get a hangnail and she worries. I'm young, I've got plenty of time left. And at least one grandchild to get to know._

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Santana approaching, back stiff and chewing on her thumbnail. Maribel, she sees it in your eyes, you think. She can tell, just by looking at you, that Santana is there. And you look down a little. Sheepish, until she pats your forearm. Otis, he notices her presence too, and he moves, just a little, when she sits down, to place his head on her thigh, comforting her in his way. It doesn't take long before a nurse comes to bring Maribel into the back. Santana, you think she's going to try to go into the operating room, following them to just outside of the restricted area and firing questions at the nurse that you can't quite read on her lips. But her mother, she takes Santana into her arms one last time, she murmurs things, you're sure, into her hair. And once she's through the door, your wife comes back to you. She sits down at your side, coming as much into your space as she can, and you wrap your arms around her. You hold her tight, and you wait, you wait, until she wants to talk.

_Thank you._  She looks up from your chest, finally. Where she'd buried her face. She hadn't been crying, at least, but she has her thumbnail in her teeth again. She just looks. Wracked. It's the best word you can think of.  _I did so much research, and I know this is common and she's fine. It's like, centimeter incisions._

"Your mom is larger than life, I know. Santana, you don't have to be sorry. I would. I'd expect you to worry about her."

_I know. But I've been snappy with you, and I'm never snappy with you._

"It's okay," you start. But. She shakes her head, and she presses a hand to your cheek. She just. Looks in your eyes, that way she does. Soft. Soft. So soft.

_It's not. It's never okay for me to snap at you. You've been amazing, sweetheart. And I apologize for the way I've spoken to you._

"And I accept that. You're right, that you shouldn't. But. But I understand why. And I'm sorry this is so hard for you." You tell her, leaning in, brushing the softest kiss on her lips. "She'll be okay though. You know that, right?"

_I do. But thank you for saying it, and for accepting my apology. And for all you've done this week. You take such good care of me, you're so special, and I love you. I love you so much._

"I love you." You smile at her, wishing you could rub away all the furrows in her brow. You watch her eyelids, heavy, flutter a little, and you choose to run your thumb beneath them instead. "I love taking care of you too. You're really tired."

_I'm_ \- she starts to say she's okay, you know, but before she even finishes, a yawn cuts her off.  _I didn't sleep much last night._

"I know. I'll share my shoulder with you. If. If you want to use it as a pillow." You see her reluctance to sleep, much as she needs it. And you give her another soft smile, you bring your hands up and down her arms. Just. Touching her. Soothing her. "The time will go faster if you do. And I'll wake you, if you need to be woken up."

_Maybe I'll just close my eyes, for a few minutes,_ she concedes, and you shuffle your body, slipping your arm beneath the armrest so you can hold her by the waist, kissing the side of her head when she lays it down on you.

Her face, it's still wracked with worry, when she closes her eyes, but you watch. You watch it as her breathing evens out. You watch as it softens, when her closing her eyes turns into actual sleep. It's more than just last night, that she hadn't slept. You feel it, in bed at night. The way she tosses and turns. So you're glad, so glad that she's succumbed to her need for sleep. And you hope it will continue tonight, once Maribel is home in her own bed. Once she's medicated, and hopefully fed, if she's up for it. Because these women, your family, you want so badly to take care of them. To cook for them, and watch out for them. Because they've watched out for you. They've learned for you. They've accepted you one hundred percent into their family, long before you were Santana's wife. And watching her, as she sleeps against you, her breath blowing wisps of your hair. You think. You think about what's coming up. You think about the day you bring a child into your home. And you think, you think. You might be a small group. But the love, there's more of it than you've ever known. Your child, they'll be the luckiest of all.

Santana only sleeps for about an hour. She wakes up with a start, and gently, gently, you remind her where she is. When you offer to get her coffee, knowing- knowing she won't leave her spot, she accepts. You're glad you can do that for her, at least, and when you and Otis come back, two cups of coffee, and a strawberry Danish, her favorite, favorite. You catch a hint of crinkle eyes, when she smiles at you. She looks sleepy still. She looks stressed. But. Looking at you. You make her happy. So happy. Pressing the coffee into her hands, you kiss her forehead. You just. You love her. More than your heart can handle. And when she takes your hand and squeezes it, you're glad, so glad, that you get to be her moral support.

When the doctor comes out a little while later, Santana, soft and relaxed in your arms. Playing Scrabble on your phone. She stiffens. Her whole body, rigid and terrified. But it's okay, it's okay. Maribel's done. She's great. She's recovering, cyst free. And Santana, she holds fast to your arm, as you're brought back to where Maribel naps. When Santana sees her, she's silent at first. Just, grateful. And then. Then she cries so hard that she actually starts laughing at herself. Clinging to your side. An effort, you know, not to throw herself on her mother and hug her tight, because she's okay. She worried so much and she's okay.

It takes some time, but, they discharge her, and she leans on you, in the lobby, holding your hand, while Santana sprints across the parking lot to get the car. Most of the way back to her apartment, Maribel sleeps in the front seat, reclined all the way. And from behind Santana, where you sit, you squeeze her shoulder. She reaches back, and she takes your hand. Holding it, in a weird sort of way, but needing it in her own. The way you do, whenever your day is rough. Or really. Just. Always. Because it's always easier, when you're in it together. When you get back, it doesn't take you long for your mother-in-law to settle into bed. She says she feels fine, mostly, but she's got a lot of drugs in her system. Santana wraps her arms around your neck then. She sighs out her relief into your hair. And you hold up her tired weight.

_Lay down with me?_  she asks you.  _You didn't sleep much either, and I just want to nap with you._

"You think that. That she'll be okay? If we do?" You try not to yawn, though you feel the exhaustion hitting you too. Now that you're back. Now that the pullout couch is right there, soft pillows waiting.

_She'll be fine. Otis'll wake us if she calls, right, buddy?_  Santana scratches his head, and you smile at her. At them. She's already changed into flannel pants. But she still has your sweatshirt on. Engulfing her. She looks so warm that you slip into her arms, you breathe in her shampoo, and you feel yourself sigh as you look into her eyes. The fire, gentle, inviting.  _We'll make dinner together when we wake up. I see you worrying about that stuff._

"I do love cooking for you both." You shrug, a little, but you know, you know, you've lost the battle against sleep. You're melting, melting in your wife's arms, as she backs you toward the bed. "But I guess taking care of you now means cuddling."

_It does._  She sinks down, pulling you with her. You lie on your side, and she does too. And. And you don't close your eyes. You just. Lie there. Watching her eyelids flutter. Watching her get her dreamy smile on her face.  _So pretty, you know._

"Santana." You tuck your chin to your chest, and she tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. More unspoken wedding vows between you.  _To hold you when you're scared, to rest with you when you're tired_. And what they all mean, combined.  _To love you, always. To be your rock, and to let you be mine._  "Santana, Santana."

_Brittany, my Brittany._  She kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, your lips, and you close your eyes you drift into sleep, holding Santana in your arms.

The whole weekend, it brings you and your wife even closer. You think. You can't. You can't really explain it. It's just, something about being there together. Taking care of her mom. Something about when you go to bring Maribel a cup of tea, and instead of finding Santana sitting on the chair where she'd been, you find her. Curled into bed with her mom, her mama. Looking so young, so, just, adorable. And then. Then Maribel invites you too.  _Brittany. Join the party._  She turns on the closed captioning on the television you and Santana had bought her for Christmas. And the three of you. You watch  _Runaway Bride_  together. Santana belly laughing, until her mother tells her to stop shaking the bed. You don't think it's that funny, but. She's so cute. Crinkle eyes. Dimples. Back to her old seIf, without the worry. So cute that you laugh too, and you kiss her face. Not shy. Not in front of Maribel. Not in front of the woman who treats you like a daughter. And who you treat like a mother.

By Monday morning, Maribel insists that she can walk to the deli with the two of you. Santana worries about it, but. But once she sees that she's perfectly capable. Once she knows that she'll be able to take care of herself. Then she knows that you're okay to go back to Philadelphia. You know, you know. She wishes her mother would just move there. But Maribel is young. She reminds Santana of that, gently. Because she knows your wife has her best interests at heart. She knows that she just wants to take care of her, in return- in return for the years that Maribel sacrificed for what was best for her baby girl, and her grown up girl. But. But she's happy in Queens. She has a good job, in a good office. She has friends. And she's not old enough to retire to her daughter's downstairs room in Pennsylvania. Much as she loves her. Heart and soul. Someday, maybe. Not now though. Now, she'll keep her life here, and, when she has a grandchild. Well, then she'll have to make more frequent trips than she already does.

You pack up the car. You insist. You want to give them a few minutes alone. Though Santana says there's nothing she has to talk about that you can't be a part of. You just, think it's good for her. So you take Otis, and you bring the suitcases out and load the trunk. You take the cooler. Filled now with  _pastelitos_  and  _baklava_  and the other foods she always brings back home. Foods you'd gone for yesterday afternoon, while Maribel took her pills and slept soundly. Because you have to agree. They are better. When they're made by the massive Greek man who lifts Santana up in a giant hug, who calls her something in Greek, words you can't understand, and neither can she, but, it's sweet. Or the Puerto Rican grandmother who kisses her cheeks whenever she sees her. She's like the sun. Your Santana. It's been more than a decade since she's lived in this place. But still. Still she keeps a place in these hearts. With that smile. That laugh. The one they hear. But you. You see. And though you'd love, maybe more than anything. To hear it too. You think, because you can't. You experience it in a way no one else ever will. You see it. Spread through her body. The eye crinkles, the dimples. Yes. But also. The way she leans in, just a little. The way her nostrils flare, and crunch her cheeks and nose. The way her teeth separate, and her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth. How her whole body vibrates with it, genuine. So you pack those things from the people she's charmed, and then, you go back inside. You embrace Maribel, careful of her healing incision. And she stands on her toes to kiss your forehead. Same as she does to Santana. And she thanks you. For cooking. For cleaning. For calming down your wife. And just. For being you. Something that gives you chills. Every time.

There's traffic again. On the way home, getting out of New York. Your timing this trip hasn't been the greatest. But it's okay this time. Santana doesn't look like she might murder anyone. Not like on the way up a rare glimpse at the side of your wife you forget exists. She's calm now. She holds your hand on her thigh. She takes the opportunity to look at you and talk, when you're in a dead stop on the Staten Island Expressway. She points things out when you're not. Things to remember, so you can talk about them later. When you hit New Jersey, it lightens up, and you're making good time, finally. You're about forty-five minutes from home, when you feel her phone vibrate, in her bag at your feet. On instinct, you reach down, and pull it out. You usually do, when you drive. Check it for her, in case it's an emergency. And this time. This time, when you do. Your heart squeezes in your chest. Your whole body prickles with heat. Because. It's nearly seven o'clock at night, and the name you see on the caller ID—

"Santana." You wonder if she can hear you. You wonder if your words have sound. But she turns her head, just a little to look at you. And you hold up the phone. Showing her the number. The name. You hold up the phone, and your hand shakes. Because you wonder. You wonder if— if she could be calling for the reason you hope for every day. The reason you've been waiting for since your home study was complete eight and a half months ago. The reason you've been waiting for even longer than that. It might not be. It might not be at all. It's been only eight and a half months. It's probably not. But still. Still your heart races. Still, you reach out and grip Santana's arm, needing to touch her. And she sees who it is. Her face changes when she does. The same flurry of emotions. Racing through her. Hoping, hoping. But afraid of those hopes getting too high. And you say it out loud, because you have to. Like if you do, it might be real.

"Santana. It's Dina."


	32. You've Really Got a Hold On Me, Baby

**Santana**

Your whole body, it feels this rush, this tingling sensation, followed by an airiness that you can't explain. Brittany is looking at you, those universe eyes, full, so full, with that same feeling, you can tell. Dina's name keeps flashing, flashing on your phone, and you know, you know, you can't answer it while you're driving. If you do, you're likely to get both you and Brittany killed, and that's not something you're willing to risk. So you nod. You nod slowly, and Brittany understands, without words. She understands your cautiousness, and she looks ahead of you, pointing out the sign for a rest stop three miles up. It's the longest three-mile drive of your life, you're certain of that, and your knee, it bounces uncontrollably, even with the weight of Brittany's hand bearing down upon it.

You pull into a spot outside one of those places, Little Americas, you think they're called, though you've never heard anyone actually say that out loud. You've just seen it written in books, and- oh, it doesn't matter. Except that maybe it does. Because this highway rest area off the Jersey Turnpike, with a McDonald's, a Starbucks, a gift shop selling who knows what, it might be important in  _your_ story. Yours and Brittany's. Yours, Brittany's, and… but you won't know that. You won't know, until you calm yourself, and you pick up the phone to listen to Dina's voicemail. But calming yourself, that's easier said than done. Brittany, she's looking at you. Brittany, she takes one hand, and she presses it to your cheek. She draws you in, she kisses you, she kisses you in this way you rarely kiss outside of the privacy of your home. It's intimate, more intimate than you can possibly describe. Her lips, they move against yours, her tongue, it slides between your lips, and it traces the space of your mouth that it knows so well. You hear her squeak a little, while she kisses, and you wind your fingers through her hair, pulling her closer to you. This is what you needed to calm you. She knows, she always knows. And when you part, there's this soft, dreamy smile on her face, a smile you can't help but brush over with your thumb.

"Call her." She rasps, her voice, heady and light. "Please."

"Hold my hand?" You reach out, and she takes it, a vise grip, rubbing the inside of your wrist with her thumb.

You listen to the voicemail first. You remember it exists, and all it says is to call her. Well, you didn't really think it would say anything else, but, you'd figured you should at least hear it, just in case. Brittany is still holding tight, her eyes trained on your face, when you hit the button to connect the call. You're sucking in all the air that you can, you're trying to keep your hopes from carrying you up, up, up, and the wait time while the phone rings, it's painful. That sixteen seconds, longer, even, than the three-mile drive. When you hear Dina's chipper greeting, your eyes, they pinch shut. And when you open them again, Brittany's still there, Brittany's universe eyes, they're still full of every hope that's ever existed.

"Hi." You hope you sound normal, but you're sure you don't. "This is Santana, Santana Lopez."

" _Hi, Santana. How are you tonight?"_

"I'm good, we're good. Brittany and I are just driving back down from New York right now. We're pulled over at a rest stop," you add quickly, making sure she knows, you're not doing something unsafe, or really, entirely illegal.

" _Did you have a nice time?"_ Dina asks, and you swallow your impatience, squeezing Brittany's hand.

"My mom had a minor surgery, but she's recovering well."

" _Glad to hear that."_ Dina takes a breath, and you hear the shuffle of papers.  _"So, I'm calling, because there was a baby born late last night, at Thomas Jefferson."_

"Okay." You nod, cautious. Your eyes are wide, and Brittany's might be wider, trying to interpret everything in your expression.

" _A baby girl. She was six pounds, three ounces, twenty inches long. Beautiful little thing."_ She tells you, and you manage to finger-spell the word  _newborn,_ with your free hand, though you don't think you need to. You think Brittany  _feels_ it.  _"I can't give you too many details about it, for confidentiality reasons, but the prospective parents decided not to follow through with the adoption."_

"Okay." You say it again, your heart racing, racing. Because this, it might be it. This moment, in your car, surrounded by southbound tourists in the middle of New Jersey, it might be the moment you were waiting for. You look at your wife, you don't even know the words to sign, because Dina hasn't said what you need to hear yet, but—

" _The birth mother and I had a long conversation this morning, and while she's devastated that the people she's been expecting to take her daughter have changed their minds, we agree that you and Brittany might be the best fit for this little girl."_ You feel like you're going to throw up. You think of all the things you read about how adoption isn't final until it's final, but that's sort of a blur in your mind. The nervous sick feeling, that's the only thing you can process, as a million emotions rush through your body, all at once. You're nodding, you're nodding vigorously, tears in your eyes, as you look at Brittany, who's brought her other hand up to cover her mouth, to keep in the noises that she's making. Because she knows, she knows, and it's a lot. It's  _so much. "Santana, the baby was born deaf."_

All of the air that you'd been holding inside, it leaves your lungs. You've heard that expression dozens of times, you've  _used_ it just as many, but this, this moment, you can say, without a doubt, that it's the first time it's truly happened to you. A baby. A tiny little six pound baby girl. Who can't hear, like your wife. She's been born, and Dina's words ring through you.  _We agree that you and Brittany might be the best fit._ There's nothing that's been confirmed yet, you've forgotten every single thing you've learned about adoption, because emotions have replaced all rational thought, but you feel, you feel like you've just been told that your  _daughter_ was born, and you use everything in your power to make the sign for  _deaf_ to Brittany, moving your finger from your ear to the corner of your mouth, and to avoid allowing the squeal that bubbles up in your throat to escape.

"Okay. Okay." You manage, butterflies finding their way out of your insides, and fluttering just below the surface of your skin. "When can we meet her?"

" _How far are you from the city?"_

"About forty minutes." You try and calculate in your head how fast you can safely cover the distance, and that seems like your best answer.

" _Well then, I'd say you can meet her in less than an hour. I'll bring you up to see her, and then, we'll discuss where we go from there."_

"Okay." You say it again, your vocabulary, seriously deficient.

She gives you instructions. You don't know how, but you manage to process them inside of your head, even as the words  _a baby girl, a beautiful little thing, she was born deaf_ play over and over in the background. You refuse to let yourself wonder why the original adoption fell through, or how it's even right that someone could look at a child they'd planned for and waited for, and change their mind, because— It pains you, really, especially when you look at your wife's face. The beautiful, amazing woman, who you're so, so lucky to share your life with. Instead, you think of this baby, this baby who might be yours, who was maybe meant to be yours all along, even before you knew it, and tears pool in your eyes. You're anxious, anxious to get off the phone, to talk to Brittany, to drive, drive to the hospital and meet this newborn life, and finally, you have all the information you need from Dina, and you hang up, promising you'll be there soon.

"There's a baby." Brittany says, as soon as you end the call. Her eyes, those universe eyes, they're filling with tears, and she reaches to grip your other hand too. "And she's deaf?"

"There is. She was born last night, and Dina says she's beautiful. Her and the birth mother, they think that we're a good fit. A baby, Britt! A baby girl. A baby who might be ours!"

"Oh, God." She brings your joined hands up to wipe at her eyes with her wrist, and you're not sure which of you is doing the trembling. "Can we? When can we?"

"Now. We can meet her right now. We have to go, and oh my God, we don't have anything for a baby yet. Is our house even clean?" You start to ramble, and you're not entirely sure she can read your lips. But your thoughts, they can't slow down. Not until Brittany seizes the opportunity, and she kisses you again. She calms you, surprisingly calm herself. She centers you, because there's a baby. There's a baby who you need to get to, and if you're panicking like this, you'll never be able to get there. "There's a baby."

"And she might be our baby. Santana. Santana." The wonder in her voice, it brings more tears to your eyes, tears she gently wipes away, kissing each of your cheeks. "Let's go. Let's go and. And meet her."

Brittany's fingers, they stay laced with yours for the rest of the drive back. You think, you've probably never been so thankful in your life for a ride without traffic, and you take the first parking spot you can find, as soon as you arrive at the hospital. Brittany wraps her arm around your waist, pulling you close, close, close to her, once she has Otis' leash clipped back up to his harness, and you're out of the car. It's so much, but you want to remember every single emotion, every line in your wife's smile, the smile she doesn't even try to keep hidden, as you walk through the automatic doors of Thomas Jefferson University Hospital.

Dina is waiting for you there, when you get in, and she jumps to her feet, greeting you both warmly. All the thoughts about logistics, they just seem to melt away, the moment you're enclosed in the four walls of the hospital, and Brittany, she still holds you close, when you're in the elevator, making your way up to the fifth floor. You resist the urge to press your face to the glass, when you reach the nursery, and you feel Brittany, and the way she itches for it, just the same as you do. Dina, she's speaking to someone at the nurse's station, and your eyes wander over each and every baby girl behind the thick paned glass. One of them, one of them, is the girl you're here to see. One of them, one of them, will hopefully find a home in your arms, in Brittany's arms, in the life you've built together. One of them, you'll hope to know, more than you'll ever know another human child. But right now, she's a total and complete stranger to you.

"There's a visiting room I'm going to take you to now." Dina's voice breaks you from the trance you've fallen under, and you loosen the grip you have on Brittany's hand in order to sign it for her. "The nurse will bring her in to us."

Brittany pulls Otis a little closer to her, though she doesn't need to, he's trained to her side. You don't say anything, not as you're led down a long hallway, not as you enter a room, much like any other hospital waiting room, but among the chairs, a rocker. It's real, it's real. You're going to meet this baby girl. Once you're seated side by side, you pull Brittany to you, you give her a firm kiss on the temple, because you can't make the words to convey the emotions that rush through you. You can't convey the surge of love you feel for your wife, silent, steady,  _sure_ , more sure than you've ever seen her before.

The door behind you creaks open, and simultaneously, you and Otis alert Brittany to the sound. You turn your heads, and a very tall nurse with a stern-seeming disposition is wheeling in a plastic bassinet. On instinct, you think, Brittany stands, and you're only milliseconds behind her. You're compelled, really, by the longing to see the being that inhabits that temporary cradle, and you stand on your tiptoes like a kid at the counter of a candy store. That little girl, the one you'd been, so many years ago, all grown up, and seeking out a new kind of rare, long awaited surprise. The best of all you've ever known.

"She doesn't have a name yet." The nurse lifts the bundle up from where she lies. "We've just been calling her  _sugar baby_ around here, because she looks sweet as it, doesn't she?"

The woman, she turns the newborn toward you and Brittany, and you feel your wife's breath hitch, as if it's happening in your own body. You feel her grip tighten on yours, or maybe your grip is tightening on hers, holding yourself up, you're unsure. The baby, swaddled in a soft green blanket, has her eyes closed. Not scrunched shut, just, closed, peacefully in slumber, dark, dark eyelashes occasionally fluttering at some unknown disturbance. You can't see much of her, not between the white hat that covers her head and the blanket that engulfs the rest of her. But you don't need to see more, not in this moment, not to feel this unexplainable surge of love that swells up in your heart, bubbling over, until it meanders into every crevice of your being. You don't need to see more of her to know that she's yours. She has to be yours. Yours and Brittany's.

You turn to your wife then, seeing if she's feeling what you are— though you don't have to. Not for an instant. Her love for this person you haven't even met yet, it's pouring off of her in waves. She wipes quickly at her eyes, moisture, having gathered there in the intensity of the moment, and she takes several certain steps forward. You loosen your grip on her hand as she does, you know what she's doing, and you won't hold her back. Because this moment, it's the one you've been waiting for most of all. This moment, you're about to burn it in your brain so you never forget it.

"Can I hold her?"

"You won't meet her properly, if you don't." You're not sure Brittany fully reads the words on the nurse's lips, but she readies her right arm, and when the baby is pressed there, safe and sound in the crook of it, you see her whole body soften and sigh.

Feet, your feet, they're moving before you know it, back to Brittany's side, and as you press your chin into your wife's shoulder, Otis' snout planted in your thigh, you're not sure at all which girl to look at, Brittany, or the little sleeper she holds close to her chest. She's crying. Brittany, not the baby. She's crying, silently, two tears landing on the little girl's forehead, and making her scrunch her forehead at the foreign intrusion. She's crying, because it's what you've both been waiting for, and here she is, so much sooner than you expected. Here she is. You hope, you hope. You hope harder than you've ever hoped in all of your life.

Dina, the nurse, the whole room, melts away around you, as you find yourself leading Brittany back to the couch you'd been sitting on. She sinks down, and you sink beside her, pressing your hand between her shoulder blades. Still watching, watching, and she meets this little girl. She doesn't speak, and you realize, she doesn't have to. You realize, if this all works out, you'll have another girl in your life that you learn to communicate with in the silence, another girl, who can't hear the world around her, but who feels it, big, so big, within her. Almost as if she's reading your thoughts, Brittany's pinky traces over the shell of the newborn's ear. Unmarred, perfectly shaped, but without sound inside of it.

"Look at her." Brittany speaks, though you're not sure she knows that she is. You're not sure, until she says it again. "Santana, look at her. She's perfect."

"She is." You nod, your tears, falling on Brittany's sweater, and you wait, you wait until she tears her eyes from the baby, just for a moment, to see your words. "She's so perfect."

"I'm. I'm hogging her. I'm sorry. You haven't-"

"It's okay. I'll get to hold her soon, right now, she should stay with you. She's comfortable there, in your arms, Sweetheart. Like, she knows, I think, that you're going to be a great mom."

A sob rips through Brittany's chest at your words, and though you'd thought you were holding it together pretty well, it sets you off. It sends you into full-fledged crying, while you try to silence yourself. But the thing is, you can't. You can't, you can't, because there's a big difference between someone being told something time and again, and actually  _feeling_ it, deep within their very soul. And in that moment, with a swaddled baby tucked against her chest, with you, pressed against her shoulder, with Otis, lying beneath her feet, eyes up, looking curiously at this new person, Brittany, she truly feels it. Brittany, with all her reservations, all the insecurities that were hammered into her as she grew, she knows, she knows. She's going to be a great mom, the best mom, and she knows, it'll be this baby who she does it for. That thought alone, blooming within you, at a glimpse of true confidence in the woman you love beyond measure, it's enough to make you believe you might  _never_ stop crying.

You get your chance to hold her too. Brittany slips her into your arms when you're hardly expecting it. It's a motion that feels so practiced, so right, though you're not sure you've ever actually held a baby before in your life. But somehow, as Brittany places her there, kissing a tiny, wrinkled forehead, it all makes sense. Another swell of love hits you hard in the chest, and it's Brittany's turn to nuzzle into  _you,_ watching as you learn every inch of this tiny person's face. When she begins to cry, a while later, you feel your heart squeeze. It's a painful noise, and it fills you with panic. Because you have to ignore your natural inclination, as a hearing person, to soothe her with your voice. You have to press her to your chest instead. You hope she can feel your heartbeat. You rock her, you stroke her velvet soft cheeks, you hum, low and heavy, so maybe, like Brittany, she can feel the vibrations of it beneath your skin. And when she settles, your whole body does too. Your whole body does, and Brittany, with her universe eyes, looks at you like you're everything. You and this baby, brand new to the world.

You have to give her back. It's late, and there are all kinds of things to discuss. You have to give her back. And it's physically agonizing. Like a tiny piece of you is being torn away. You want to stay with her all night. You and Brittany, trading her back and forth. You and Brittany, kissing her little face, changing her little diapers, feeding her, loving her. She's yours, she has to be. You feel it down to the very marrow of your bones, and when she's back in her bassinet, being wheeled to the nursery, you have to tuck yourself into Brittany's arms, just for a brief moment, to keep yourself from crying. The rapid rise and fall of her chest tell you she's struggling just as much, but you pull yourselves together. She's just going to sleep. You'll (hopefully) see her again in the morning.

"I know it's late." Dina's voice cuts through your moment, and you wipe your face, you wipe Brittany's face, and you turn to her, keeping your arm securely around your wife's waist. "And I know you had a long drive before you got here, but do you think we can sit for a bit and talk?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course." You bob your head up and down, watching Brittany do the same. "Anything you need."

With Brittany at your side, you sit down. Dina has an array of paperwork spread out on the table before you, and you watch as she shuffles through it. You listen, as she tells you some information about the birth mother, signing it all for Brittany, too. You smile, as you hear how healthy that baby girl is ( _your_ baby girl, you hope, you hope) and you see Brittany press her fingers to her lips, holding all of her emotions inside of her, for fear she might burst. A feeling you understand, entirely. Before anything else, Dina tells you more about the baby. That she's healthy, so healthy, other than the hearing impairment. That she'd tested well. That she'd already seen an audiologist. That she's eating what she needs to eat. There's so, so much that's happened in her less than twenty-four hours of life, and you soak it in, memorizing every detail, before Dina turns even more serious.

"This is the thing. Before the— before the original family changed their minds, we'd made no plans to place the child in an interim home. The birth mother chose to place her directly with her forever family, and we've seen no indications that she's likely to change her mind about the adoption. The biological father has already terminated his rights, and though the state of Pennsylvania gives the mother thirty days to change her mind, we'd like to have the baby placed before she's discharged from the hospital."

"Okay." You purse your lips. Hoping, hoping, hoping.

"The birth mother wants to meet you both. She has the final say, or things could get really tied up." You feel Brittany stiffen a little, when you sign that to her, but she tries not to show her anxiety show to Dina. "But, in my professional opinion, I don't think it'll be a problem."

"When. When can we meet her?"

"She's sleeping now, it's been a rough thirty six hours for her. The baby was born at eleven forty-six last night, so she was up very late, and then this morning, well… but first thing in the morning would be the best."

"We can make that happen." You nod.

"Brittany. Santana." Dina looks at you, very seriously, and you snap to attention. "If this goes well, the baby girl could end up in your care tomorrow. Are you both ready for that?"

"We will be." Brittany tells her, the certainty you hear in her words, undeniable. "We. We'll absolutely be. By tomorrow morning."

"Okay, then you should get in touch with your lawyer first thing, and we'll go from there."

On your way out, you peer in through the nursery glass once more. You see her, sleeping soundly in her plastic cradle. You see her, and you send a prayer to any higher being out there who will listen to you. In less than an hour, this tiny creature burrowed her way into your heart, and for all the months you'd waited, you didn't feel more like a mother than you do right now. You didn't feel more like a mother than you do, knowing, knowing that you might already be. When you turn to Brittany, her fingers are pressed to her lips. Blowing a kiss, you think, without making it known to the world. You seek out her other hand, Otis' leash around the wrist. You seek it out, and you fit your fingers in the spaces between hers. And hand in hand, you make your way out of the hospital.

"I love her." She finally lets what she's been holding in burst free, once you get into the parking lot, and you see the tears gather in her eyes again. "Santana. Santana. She's. She's perfect. She's so perfect."

"I know she is." You have to kiss her lips then. You have to kiss them, because you love her more. Always more. "I know she is, and I love her too."

"She's like me, Santana. I don't. I don't even mean because she can't hear. They— they didn't want her. The people who were supposed to adopt her. They just. They changed their minds."

"Sweetheart." Your heart aches at the way her voice cracks. Because you, you've been thinking it, since the moment you got on the phone with Dina, but, the way the anguish at the thought ripples through Brittany's body, it physically pains you. You don't know the truth in the circumstances, but, the assumptions, they worm their way into your mind. And her mind too. Her mind probably even more. "Sweetheart."

"She's beautiful. She's so beautiful. And— and she's healthy. You saw! Everything but her ears. She's just—"

"Perfect." You repeat.

"I don't. I know she's not ours, not yet. I know it's not even my business. But, I don't. I don't want someone to have her, who won't see that. Even if it's not us. I just…"

"I know. I know. Neither do I, Brittany. She deserves the love of her family. Just like you did. Brittany, sweetheart. It's going to work out. If that's the reason they didn't take her, she's so much better off. And it looks really good, sweetheart. It looks like she could be coming home with  _us,_ and we'll love her, we'll teach her, and we'll protect her, you and me, forever." You open your arms for her, and she falls into your embrace. She buries her face in your hair, and she just, lets herself be held, if only for a moment, before she pulls herself back to look at you.

"Target closes at midnight." She tells you, and it takes you a minute to piece that together, piece together that she's springing from the intensity of her emotions into immediate action. "We should— we'll return things if we have to, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, we should. We need to. It she comes home with us tomorrow, we said we would be ready."

So you go. You go to Target, and you shop, like you're frenzied. The things you'll need right away, they're all you're buying, mostly, but you couldn't be more glad for your wife's preparedness. You couldn't be more glad that you've already done your research together. You already know the safest and the best of what you'll need. With Brittany, holding her phone, where the list is stored, and Otis, tilting his head curiously at everything this day has been, you fill two carts. A car seat, a bassinet, that you'll need to put together, if, if. Formula and a box of diapers. Bottles, wipes, and special baby detergent. Swaddling blankets. A wrap, so you can carry her close to your chests, so you can soothe her with your heartbeats. A turtle that projects stars on the ceiling, because you remember, somewhere in your reading, that light is good for soothing newborns who can't hear. They fill your cart, and you start to feel lightheaded and dizzy again at the thought of who they might be for.

You're almost to the register, twenty-three minutes until midnight, when you realize, you realize, there are no baby clothes in the carts, there's nothing for this little person to wear, if she comes to live with you. Not a single outfit. You realize it, and you and Brittany both, you laugh. You dissolve, entirely, into giggles, in the middle of Target. And then, you kiss her, you kiss your wife, and you laugh some more. You're tired, you're emotionally overwhelmed, and all you can think to do is laugh and kiss. Because this, this thing that's happening, or,  _may be_ happening, it's not how you planned it at all. You knew it would be fast, but, late night Target shopping for everything you need to take a baby home, you didn't think it would happen  _that_ fast. But somehow, somehow, as Brittany stands in front of you, lifting onesies and sleepers and socks and little tiny pants, you think, this might be the greatest night of your life. And you couldn't imagine it any other way.


	33. Hope That My Dreams Will Come True

**Brittany**

It's early. You can tell it's early. When you wake, with a start. Santana. She's not in your arms, though. It's you, and Otis, curled up in her place. Your blink your eyes rapidly. And you look at the time on your wrist. Four-seventeen. Four-seventeen and Santana's already out of bed. You think for a minute, that she's going to work. But. Then, then you remember. Nuzzling Otis' head, you push yourself up, and you meander out into the kitchen. Her back is to you. She's standing over the sink, and there are soap bubbles up to her arms. She hears your presence, you think. Her body always, softens, maybe, when you enter a room. And it only takes a second, before she turns her head in your direction, giving you that soft morning smile. Tiny crinkles in her eyes. Just the slightest press of a dimple on her left cheek. She pushes her fallen hair from her face with her arm. Streaking a trail of bubbles across it. You see it, in her hand, the sudsy baby bottle, and your throat, it constricts. Your heart. It hammers. Hard against your rib cage. She's beautiful, so beautiful. But it's more than that. It's this. This could be a position you'll find her in often, and she'll find you there, too. If, if.

You notice the percolator, hot on the stove. She's gotten good at making coffee the old fashioned way. Though you know she still prefers yours, and— And you still prefer to make it for her, anyway. But. The lights that flash from the closet across the room indicate that there are clothes done in the dryer. Clothes that hadn't been in the washer last night. She's been up, for a long time. Doing things, important things. So she made her own. And your heart. It just. It feels that tug. The tug of what today is. The tug of why you're up, and why she's not at work.

_I told the station I might be taking maternity leave. That I'd know more today._ She tells you, swallowing a lump in her throat as she says it. Setting the bottle on the drying rack, and reaching for your coffee mug.  _I left a message for the lawyer. And I know we said that we'd return stuff, if_ — _You know. But, I don't want her to come here with no clean clothes and no clean bottles, so…_

"We could always donate it." You shrug, though you bite your lips into your mouth. You can't. You don't. You don't want to think about that. You want her. This little tiny baby. You want her so badly that it's physically painful. You want to bring her here, bring her  _home._ Where you and Santana will teach her and protect her and love her. Love her so much. "I hope we don't have to."

_I know. I hope that too, Sweetheart._ She blinks. She blinks really fast, like she does when she doesn't want to get overcome by emotion. And you just, kiss her good morning. Because, because.

"Maybe I should put the bassinet together. And. And that. That vibrating seat, too?"

_Yeah. Yeah. If you want to, I think it's a really good idea._

So you do. You sit down on the living room floor, still in your pajamas, with your coffee beside you, and you take pieces out of boxes. Reading the instructions. Over and over again. Because you don't want to do it wrong. You  _can't._ You can't do it wrong. She needs to be safe. If, if. Santana. She comes in too. The bottles. They're all clean. Lined up in their drying rack. The formula, it's stacked up on the counter. The directions, they're taped over it. In case. In case. Santana sits on the couch, and she folds the laundry. Tiny baby clothes, stacking up beside her. Soft and clean and warm. And when they're finished, she sits on the floor with you. You work together, putting the places your, your— You can't call her that yet. You can't. Because if you do, and she's  _not._ Your heart, it'll shatter all over the hospital floor. Putting the places  _a_ baby will lie together. You and your wife, hoping, hoping. Before the sun rises, they're done. Before the sun rises, you fill a cart together, on Amazon. The glider, a crib, a dresser, and books, so many books, that you'll sign to her. That you'll let her look at the pictures of. If, if. They'll be ready, when you press the  _submit order_ button. Later. If, if.

At seven, you're at the diner across from the hospital, having breakfast. You want to be at the hospital at eight. When visiting hours start. Even if you're sitting in the waiting room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. For the woman who gave birth to this perfect baby. This baby that you already love. In a different way that you've ever loved anyone before. Different than you love Santana. But. No less, you think. Already. Because, she feels like, like  _yours._ You feel like her mother. You can't explain it. So you eat. Not talking much, because you don't know what to say, you both feel it. If you talk too much, you'll get too excited. If you talk too much, you'll jinx things. So you eat. Eggs and toast and fruit. Coffee. Lots of coffee. And you wait.

When Santana gets up to go to the bathroom, you talk to Otis. You tell him, again, about the baby. The baby he'd met, cautious, at your feet. The baby, you want so badly to have as yours. For real. And you tell him, you tell him you'll need his help. You tell him, how you're so grateful for all the help he's given you in your life. For all the things you've done together. Living on your own, in the city. Building your career. Meeting Santana. Marrying Santana. Buying this home you have. And now. Now you'll need his help more than ever. You tell him that. Because he's your best friend. He's still your best friend— besides Santana. But. She doesn't count. Because she's  _her._ You tell him you'll need him. That you're doing this together. You and him and Santana. He's your ears. You'll need him to tell you when she cries. Though you have that special baby monitor. You trust Otis more. You know he won't let you down. You tell him these things. And you think, you think. He understands. Because he's him, and he always does. Especially the most important things, When it comes to you.

You waste time. When you get to the hospital. It's only seven-forty-eight, and you've already had a whole day, it feels like. You walk around the first floor, Santana's hand in yours. Her foot, nervously tapping, whenever you pause your steps, looking at some piece of art, donated by some wealthy Philadelphian. You walk around, and then. Then you sit. In those chairs. Those chairs that see birth and death. Overwhelming elation, and devastating heartbreak. You sit and you wait. For Dina. For the lawyer to call. To see the baby. For everything. And you think of the book, the one that's already on your shelf at home, next to a torn and tattered copy of  _Eloise._ Santana's favorite. The one that's yours.  _Until you've reached a most dreadful place, The Waiting Place._ That's what this room feels like to you, and you jitter inside. You play with Santana's fingers. You look over her shoulder, at the phone. Black screen. Because it's early, and you know the lawyer won't be in yet. You watch her check the balance in your savings account. Important things, important things. And finally. Just when you feel like you might actually explode, if Santana doesn't first. Dina appears.

_She's awake now._ Her three words, even you can read them on her lips. And perfectly in sync, you and your wife stand. The other she _,_ you'll see later. If, if. But  _this_ she _,_ she's the most important meeting you'll ever have in your life. You think.  _This_ she, she's the one who gave birth to that baby. The one you already love.  _I'll take you up._

Your fingers and Santana's are clasped so tightly, you think, you think, they might have meshed together. But you can't let go of her. It's overwhelming. The waiting. The meeting. The thought of that baby, just down the hall. That baby. The one you ache to hold. The one you ache, even more. To see your wife with. Touching her. Rocking her. Humming to her. You know she is. When she holds her. Humming, humming, so she feels her here. Speaking in tactile language, because the language of sound isn't one that baby girl can understand. She's auditory, your wife, but, she understands, more than anyone you've ever met, how to connect with someone who isn't. She's shown you that for years now. She speaks her language, but together with you, she's learned yours too. And not just the sign. The everything. You ache, but you have to wait. And patience, patience, it brought you to the woman you'll love infinitely. It brought you to the home you've built your life in. You hope, if you exercise it well again. It will bring you to motherhood, too.

Dina disappears into the room. Room six-oh-eight. And when she emerges again, she nods, indicating that you can come inside. You breathe. Deep, deep, breaths, and you look at Santana. You look at her, because you're in this together. You look at her, because you need to see her eyes right now. The fire, burning bright there. Waiting, hoping, just like you. And she nods to you, telling you that you're both okay. That you'll show this woman that you're worthy. That you'll be good moms. That maybe you already are. That you'll care for the baby she gave birth to, that you love her already, that you always will. No matter what.

When you cross the threshold, you see her. Sitting there on the bed. Her legs crossed beneath her. Looking tired, so tired. And young, so young. The woman who gave birth to that perfect little baby. She's in your presence, and the weight of this moment, it bears down. Hard upon you. It's a moment. One of those ones that change your life indefinitely. Like a body splashing into cold water. Like spilled coffee on a cream colored jacket. You feel Santana suck in another breath beside you. Her body, puffing up with it. And you're uncertain. Uncertain what it is that you do, in the presence of the person whose newborn you'd like to adopt. You're uncertain. How, how you even begin.

"I'm Brittany." You find yourself saying. Before you even realize you are, really. Because she's looking at you. Wide, honey colored eyes. Lighter than your wife's. But. Blacker, still, somehow. "This is my wife. Santana."

The woman nods. She doesn't introduce herself by name. You're not surprised by that. Really. You think. Maybe. It's easier for her to do this, if she feels like you don't know her. If you see her, just as a being who brought life into the world. Not as the person she is. Not as the person she'll become. Maybe. It's easier for her to detach herself. Maybe. It's easier for her to just let go. You understand it. You do. You lived most of your life detached. Because that's how things were easier. You catch most of her words of greeting, as Santana leans in to shake her hand, because it's all  _she_ can think to do. And, you follow her lead. You follow her lead, and then Dina offers you the seats at her bedside. Santana, sliding hers a little closer to you. Santana, loosening her grip on your hands. Not letting go, but— But knowing you might need her translations. Knowing you both might need each other's closeness, as much as you can give it. And Otis. Lying at your feet. Your silent partner.

_You met her?_ She asks, and you both nod. Slow. A little hesitant.  _She's beautiful right? I…her. Just one._ Your eyes flicker to Santana, who signs the words, filling in the missing  _held_ where you couldn't read it.  _Both of you aren't…in the file, it says…_

_I'm hearing._ Santana tells the girl.  _But I sign fluently. Brittany reads lips well, when I speak slowly, but, I don't want her to always have to speak my default language. And being able to translate when I need to is good._

_Can you understand me?_ The girl looks at you, enunciating her words more carefully, and you feel your eyes blink furiously at the effort, before your head bobs. Up and down.  _You speak though._

"I wasn't born deaf." You say, cautious, because, the baby. It's strange. It's strange. The whole time. You'd worried that your deafness would be a strike. Causing someone to avoid considering you and Santana. But. But now the girl wants to know about it. Because, because. If, if. "I lost my hearing when I was seven. So. I. I speak both."

_Okay._ She eyes you, and Santana's grip on your hand, it tightens. Anxious. So anxious.  _Dina…your file…doesn't say a lot about that. I wanted to know. Because of her. I didn't…drugs or eat hot dogs._

"It happens." You say. Your voice is soft, you think, and, you wonder, wonder. Wonder about those people again. The ones that didn't want her. Though you don't want to. You think about your mom. Though you don't want to. You think about blame, blame, blame. But there isn't anyone to blame. For you. Or for the baby, either. It just  _is._ You're okay, you're okay. You ended up okay. And the baby. She will too. She's a warrior. You can see it in her tiny face. "Things we don't plan. They happen."

_This isn't what I pictured._ She looks between you and Santana. She looks into her lap. Sometimes. So it's a little difficult for you to understand all of her words. But. You try. And your brain and Santana's hands, they work to fill the gaps.  _For her. …Pictured her in a great big house...play soccer, ballet, sing maybe. But now. All the things I…They don't exist. I know she's not mine…dreams for, not anymore. But for nine months, I did. I pictured her life. With a mom and a dad. The ones I picked out._ You open and close your mouth. You're not sure if you should speak. Or. If it's out of turn. And you see Santana. Having the same struggle.  _And I realize, her life, it's not going to be what I pictured at all. And I just need to know…be around love, and be loved._

_We can't give her a mom and dad._ Santana looks at you, and your heart, it races. You're scared, scared, scared. Sick to your stomach scared.  _We can't give her that. But, I promise you, from both of us, that if she's ours, she'll have that, the last dream you're keeping for her. Brittany and I love each other, and we want to share that with a child. We will love her, with everything we have. And more than that, we'll, understand her._

"I. I grew up." You start, when Santana nods to you, encouraging you to speak. "In a home where my parents didn't know what to do with me. Because they didn't expect me to lose my hearing and they thought everything they pictured from me was just. Gone. But, I have a great career. I'm married to a woman I love. And I hope, that I'm going to be a mom. If not today, then someday. They're things that my mom, I don't think she thought were possible for me. When she thought I was damaged. I understand what it's like. To be different in the world, because I am. I fought to have the life that I dreamed, when my mom's old dreams were gone. And Santana, she taught me that I'm worthy. That's what we can offer her. Even if we aren't what you pictured."

_When I decided to give birth to her, I promised…what's best for me, and my future…best for her._ Her eyes, they're wide. Like. Like she's trying. Maybe. Not to cry. And you resist the urge to reach over and touch her. She's not. In your very small circle of people that you can touch. But you wish you could do something. You wish you could do something, and then, she smiles a little at you.  _My mom…coffee. I'm not alone here, it's okay._

"Good. I'm really glad, for that." Santana's thumb draws hearts on the back of your wrist as you speak. That secret way she talks to you sometimes, her own little sign, her silent  _I love you, Sweetheart._ Her silent  _you are more special than you know._

_You feel like, like moms._ The young girl pushes her dark curls from her face.  _You'll give her what she needs._

_We'll do everything in our power._ You feel the vibrations of Santana's nervous laugher thrum through your body. You feel it bubble in your chest, too. Because that was more than if, if. That was. It was—

_And when she's big enough, if you could just_ —Tears begin to fall, and she wipes them, furiously, furiously from her face. And she talks slowly. So slowly, so you know, you know. She needs you both to understand this. More than anything else.  _If you could just tell her, that there was someone else. Someone who loved her enough to give her to you. I don't want pictures, or letters….let her go. But. I just ask for that._

"We. We will." You let yourself feel that hope, in its entirety. That hope that you've been fighting against. Because. You couldn't let it get shattered. But. But here she is. She's talking to you. And to Santana. Like you're the moms. Like, she chose you. To raise that perfect little baby as your own. The one you already love, though you've known her only in brief moments. And you can't, you can't look at your wife. Because you'll burst. You'll burst, and you can't do that. Not right this moment. "She'll always know."

The time. It's up. You see, you see. By the way Dina stands. And you watch. As Santana murmurs something. A  _thank you_ , you think. A  _our gratitude can't be put into words._ A  _we'll be the best moms we can possibly be._ And you thank her again yourself, swallowing, swallowing hard as this girl keeps her chin up. As this girl passes off the motherhood of the girl she carried for nine months to you, to Santana. Your wife. She slips her arm around you. Your wife. She looks back once more, with you, when you cross back through the doorway and Dina closes herself in behind you. Another  _goodbye_. Another  _thank you._ Another recognition of the inner strength in that girl. The strength to give up her baby. The same type of strength your mother-in-law had to  _keep_  hers. And your wife, she breaks down, with you, the moment that door closes. Because you've just been given the greatest gift you'll ever receive, but you know, it doesn't come without a loss to another person.

You sit again. You sit and wait. For Dina. Because there's still so much more you'll need to do. But right now, you'll have to wait again. The waiting this time though, it's easier. In the waiting this time, you know, you know. She's yours. Or she will be. She'll— She'll come home with you. And when you think about that. When you think about the bottles and the clothes. The little outfit Santana tucked into her bag, in case, in case. When you think about the bassinet you'd put together, barely speaking, for fear. When you think about her, in both of your arms, you can't help the sob that bursts free of your chest. You can't help but look up from where you rest against Santana, and you see, you see, she's crying too.

_Sweetheart. It's real._

"We're. We're moms. Santana. We're moms. She's. She's going to be ours."

_She is, Britt. She is._ Santana, she brings her hands up to both sides of your face. She holds you. Just like that. She holds you like that for a long time. Studying you, maybe. The way you study her. Remembering every detail in this moment. This great big one. This one that even Santana, and her ability to make important words. Love words, and otherwise. This one that she can't even find the words to fill.  _I love you, so much. More than ever, every single moment._

"You too. Santana. So much that I don't even know how I handle it. And. And we're going to share all our great big love. With her."

_We are. Oh, God. We are._

The morning, it's long. You ache, you ache to be with her. You ache to hold her again. To tell her that you're her moms now. To tell her again, how much you love her. But. You'll have her whole life to tell her that. Now, now you need to deal with the legal stuff. The adoption, it won't be finalized for months. Dina, she'll come see you, in the interim. But. You need to sign guardianship papers. Because her biological mother has signed to relinquish her rights. You need to deal with financial things. And you train your eyes to Santana, as you do. So serious, after she hangs up the phone, when the lawyer finally calls. Serious, as she tells you everything you need to know. Signing furiously for you the whole time, so you don't miss anything. But always, always so sure. She's smart, so smart, and she's making sure that each letter is right. She's making sure that. That nothing will mess this up. You know, you know, the first thirty days will be hell. The first thirty days, you'll be on eggshells. Scared, scared, that, that she might go back, to the woman who gave her to you. But. You'll love her then. You'll love her just the same. Because you've only met her once, but this tiny little  _everything_ has seeped into every cell of your body. And the love, it overwhelms you.

When it's finally over, the legal stuff. When it's finally over, you get to see her again. Not just see her. You get to— To get ready to take her home.  _Home._ You get to sit in the room alone with her. For the first time. You get to change her. To dress her. To  _have_ her. Because there's a folder in Santana's big bag. A folder with papers that say you can. A folder that will bring you to a courthouse soon, where they'll give you a birth certificate, your names printed on it, as her parents.  _Lopez,_ printed after the name you choose for her. You don't need that to say she's yours. You've known, you've known. Since the moment you laid eyes on her. But, you need it so nothing can ever compromise that.

Santana takes her first this time. You nudge her over there. And you watch, Otis at your side. You watch, as she lifts her from the bassinet. Natural, so natural at it. You watch, as she presses a kiss. Right in the center of her forehead. Enamored, so enamored with her. You watch, the way two pairs of dark lashes flutter, taking each other in. And you watch, you watch the way Santana touches baby soft skin, ghosting over it, memorizing every inch of it. Telling her, telling her. She is ours. We are hers. You love her, you love her more, your wife. You love her. And because of that, you're doing these things. Things you never thought possible. You love her, and from that love, you've become a mother. A mother to that perfect newborn in her arms.

_She needs a name._ Santana tears her eyes from the baby. She tears her eyes from her, and looks up at you. Looks  _in_ you, that way she does. Like you— Like you make her do impossible things, too. Then she shifts, just a little bit, so she has better use of her hand, singing the letter  _B,_ and pointing to her eyes. Your sign name. The name you'd been given by your teacher, decades before you'd known your wife. But relevant, more, every day since you've known her.  _Two names._

"Two names." You repeat. Stepping closer to them. The three of you, in this tiny space. Otis, sitting at your side. Your family. Your real family. Your breath. It's stolen away. Because. Because it's a lot. The best kind of a lot. You take your turn, leaning down to kiss a tiny forehead, just below where her white cap covers the crown, and then Santana's lips. Watching her eyes. Brimming. Brimming. "Our girl. It doesn't. It doesn't feel real. She's like. A dream."

_But she is. And she's ours._ She cups her hand and brings it across her chest. You can tell, you can tell. That she's figuring out how to speak to her. And. And it's beautiful, the way she just, touches her softly when her eyes are closed. The way she tries to make her  _feel_ the love, since she can't hear it. Like she's always done with you.  _We planned so much, but we never thought of names._

"Did you know—" You lead her, careful, careful, not to jostle the now sleeping baby. To the little couch. And you sit beside her, knees brushing. "Did you know that  _Eloise._ It means  _warrior?"_

_You. You looked that up?_ She asks. Her lashes. Doing that fluttering thing again. The one that makes your knees weak. The one that makes you  _feel_ the tone of a voice you've never heard. The one that makes your belly twist and your heart thump.

"I just. I was wondering. One day. Awhile ago. Just because, it's your favorite book. Your mom. She saved that book for a lot of years, so I know it's special. And. I don't know. I was curious."

_Eloise lived all my childhood dreams, except, she never had her parents around. Just Nanny. So when my mom would read it to me, I felt like. I don't know. It's silly now, but, I felt like, I was sharing her big fancy world, and she was maybe, sharing my mom with me._

"Santana Lopez." You don't know what to say. Your Santana. Your forever love. She's something. Something wonderful. Even more. With your baby in her arms. "What if. What if we called her Eloise. What if, our strong little girl. What if she got to live…live all the big-came-true-dreams. And. And she got to have moms too?"

_Brittany. Brittany, Brittany. I think, that it's a beautiful name. And I love your reasons behind it._

"Yeah?"

_Yes. For sure._ She leans over and she kisses you between the eyes. Careful, careful still, to keep the baby asleep. Baby Eloise. Pressed against her heart. Feeling all the love inside of it.  _Eloise, our little baby Eloise. What if, for her name sign, we used what they called her, before us?_

"Sweet like sugar." You look down, at the creased little forehead of the sleeping baby. Your sleeping  _daughter._ Then, you cast your eyes back up. To Santana. Forming the name in her head. She molds the letter  _E,_ slowly, with her hand. Then she brushes the pads of her index and middle finger against her chin, before curling them back into her fist. And you gasp. At that. Because it's her name. In the language she'll speak. It's her name. And it's beautiful. "That's perfect."

_Oh, baby Eloise._ She kisses her, again and again. Speaking to her that way. In love. In affection. _You, baby girl, you are so loved._

"Let's. Let's get her dressed, Santana. Let's talk to the doctors. And. And let's take her home."


	34. Epilogue: Since You've Been Mine

**Santana**

_June, 2021_

You hear it the moment you walk in the door, the raucous laughter of Brittany and Eloise. In the entryway, you slip off your shoes and your jacket, and you hurry up the stairs, excited to get to them. It's been a long day at work for you. After your morning show, you'd been in meetings all afternoon, and you're completely exhausted. You know you won't sleep, not for awhile, it's date night tonight, after all, and you can't curl up and nap with Brittany in the afternoons anymore, not like you used to, but still, you're glad to be home with them. You're glad to have the rest of the afternoon with your two favorite people in the whole world.

Eloise is three now. You'd celebrated the day last month, with your mom, with Jonas and his now-wife Allie, and their six-month-old son, with a few of the families from Eloise's preschool at the Pennsylvania School For the Deaf. And at the end of the summer, you'll celebrate her second special day, her Forever Day, the anniversary of the day you'd held her in your arms in the courtroom, and you'd been handed her new birth certificate. Eloise Susan Lopez. Since Brittany had taken your last name, you'd wanted your daughter to have something that had been part of her for her entire life too, and she'd looked at you, the universe sparkling in her eyes, before nodding a quiet agreement to your suggestion. Eloise is three now, and every moment you've had with her is more amazing than the last. She's vibrant and full of life, life that she expresses in lightening quick hand motions, and kisses all over your face. She's a lot like Brittany, you think, and not because she's deaf. She's a lot like Brittany, because she feels things, bigger than most people, and it took her a little time before she found the way to best express them, but now that she can, to feel her love, it makes you so wholly lucky,

You open the baby gate at the top of the stairs, and you find Brittany, crouched over Baby E, tickling her sides. Close to her chest, Eloise, with her black curls, clutches her stuffed monkey, a relic from her first trip to Disney World, the second part of the third birthday celebration, and a belated wedding anniversary for you and Brittany, a place she'd been enchanted with, much to your delight, even at her young age. She clutches him close, Abu, and she laughs, she laughs so big it fills the whole room with the sound. Her laugh, it's the most amazing thing in the world to you. It tells you that you're doing things right. It tells you that your beautiful baby girl is happy, she's safe, she's understood and she is loved, unconditionally. So you watch them, you watch them for a long while. Otis from where he lies in his bed in the corner, getting old and tired, lifts up his head to acknowledge your presence, and somehow, in his eyes, you know he knows it too, how special and wonderful your two girls are. Your wife and your daughter, your life, more, even, than you ever dreamed of.

On the table, Eloise's hearing aids lie. She hates them, she truly does. Even after a few months of adjusting, she talks about them, mostly, using the signs for  _itchy_ and for  _busy_ and for  _bad._ She hates them, and that's okay. You and Brittany have discussed it at length, and if she doesn't want to wear them, you're not going to force them. Once upon a time, Brittany would have wished for them for herself, once upon a time, Brittany wouldn't have understood why Eloise wouldn't want to wear them. But now she understands that her own deafness doesn't make her imperfect, nor does Eloise's, it just makes them perfect in an entirely different way. Once upon a time, you would have thought your daughter hearing your voice was the most important thing you could ever have, once upon a time you would have thought that singing her to sleep would be a way you bonded with her. But now, now you know that Eloise doesn't need to hear you to know your voice— though she can, muffled, when she has her hearing aids in, her face, screwing up in fascination, the first time she had, not realizing what it was that happened when you move your lips. She doesn't need to hear your voice, because she sees it, in the pull of your smile, she feels it, in buzz of your throat when you hug her close, in the whisper of your breath on baby soft skin.

_Little mommy._ Eloise sees you, and she wriggles out from Brittany's grasp, toddling toward you. You'd worried about how she'd differentiate the two of you, linguistically, since there's only one word in sign for who you both are to her. But Baby E, your smart-as-a-whip little thing, she'd figured it out for herself, and it couldn't be more right.  _You're home._

_Here I am._ You sign back, before you lift her into your arms, and you squeeze her tight.

_Big mommy tickles._ She tells you, laughing again, just seeing Brittany's mischievous eyebrow.  _A lot._

_She did? Can I tickle her?_

_No. No. You kiss big mommy._ Eloise shakes her little head, and she slips from your tight embrace. _We miss you._

_I missed you too, sugar baby._

"How about me?' Brittany smiles at you, pushing herself up from her crouched position, and filling Eloise's vacant place in your arms.

"Always, Sweetheart." You smile back, signing the word  _always_  as you speak it, your favorite word, forever your favorite word to sign. She kisses your lips, and you sigh against them. You know what the day is, and so does she, but your celebrating, it'll wait until later.

_Kiss kiss me, little mommy._ Eloise taps the heel of her foot on the floor to get your attention, repeating the gesture of bringing her flattened  _O_ from her lips to her other hand twice, for emphasis, as she often does when she wants something.  _Kiss kiss me._

_You?_ You raise your eyebrows in question, and she nods vigorously, black curls bouncing where they fall to her shoulders, growing longer every day.  _Okay._

_I love you._ She stands on her tip toes and purses her lips, very, very into being a  _big girl_ lately, something that makes you so incredibly proud, and just a little heartbroken at how fast she grows all at once.

_I love you._ You sign back, kneeling down before her, kissing all over her tiny face, and starting up her laughter again.

You play with her on the floor, you and Brittany both. Your wife has some work to do—another book, her visions growing more and more vivid with a child of her own, enough so that you've told her, more than once, that you think if she wanted to, she could write her own stories, too— but she's decided, she can put it off for today. Tomorrow, she'll set up Eloise's easel beside hers, and your daughter will paint her letters— her newest learned skill— and Brittany will paint her imaginary world, more woodland creatures and tall, tall trees. You'll watch them, Otis lying with his head in your lap, and you'll smile, because it's one of the most perfect sights you've ever seen. But today, today, she'll take a break. Today, today, she'll savor each moment with you and Eloise, because right now, that's more important than anything.

For a little while, Eloise falls asleep in Otis' bed. She does it sometimes, curling up at his side to pet his greying head, and then succumbing to exhaustion herself, while he watches her closely, before falling asleep along with her. You and Brittany are okay with that, and Otis has no complaints either. He's been like a guardian to her since the very first day you brought her home from the hospital, and now, now sharing his space with her, her little hands grasping his neck, and hugging him close, it's as comfortable to him as breathing. They love each other, and it makes your heart throb— and Brittany's more, you think— watching your wife's trusted old friend, and your little girl snore together in the corner of your living room.

While they sleep, you curl into Brittany's side on the couch. It's been a long day, and you just want a few moments of rest, before you begin your evening plans. She's good, so good to you, stroking your hair, kissing the side of your face, just holding you close, letting you listen to her heartbeat. It's a quiet life you live, even with your very active three-year-old, but even still, you appreciate these quietest of moments. Moments where you don't need words, spoken or signed. Moments, where you hear it all in the  _thump, thump, thump_ of your beautiful wife's heart, in the soft snores of a big, old Vizsla, in the snuffles of your precious baby girl. They don't last long, but each and every one, you hold close to your heart. You know, you know, that this little family of yours, it's your most precious thing of all.

Too soon, it's time to get up. But your mom's train gets in at five-forty-eight, and you'd promised Eloise that you'd all go in the car together to pick her up. She loves the train station, the vibration of the arriving engines beneath her feet, the bright lights, and especially, the way her grandma always lifts her up in her arms, spinning her around on the platform, and often crying at how big she grows, and how fast. Brittany goes to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and you lie down on your stomach, brushing Eloise's hair out of her eyes, and kissing her forehead. You know, better than almost anyone, that you have to wake her gently, that she turns into a tiny bear cub if you don't, and as her dark lashes blink open, the scowl appears immediately on her face.

_Sleep now._ Her pudgy toddler hand makes the words.  _No wake up little mommy._

_Train station, baby. Grandma is coming. It's time to wake up now._

_Grandma._ She thinks on that, starfish fingers splayed out in front of her chin.  _Okay._

From where she lies, Eloise wiggles her way toward you, tucking her face into your neck. You sit up with her in your arms, holding her close and rocking her a little. Since she was born, she's needed her slow wake up, to be cuddled and kissed, to have her hair played with and her skin stroked. And you're always happy to oblige. You love that she craves the closeness with you, you love it so much, especially because your biggest fear when you'd brought her home was that you'd struggle communicating with her. But you never have, your tiny baby daughter, she'd understood your love for her right away, and even now, when you can speak to her in sign, hugs and kisses and the sound of your heartbeat, they still convey your love for her louder than any word language ever could.

Brittany comes back into the living room with two mugs, handles clasped in one hand, and Eloise's milk in the other. She sets them down on the coffee table, then kneels down beside you. She kisses the top of your daughter's head, and you hear it, the way she breathes her in, too, the camomile and calendula baby wash for her sensitive skin tickling Brittany's nose. When Eloise lifts her head from your neck, simply to rub her nose with Brittany's, you get butterflies. You always do, watching them interact. You think of the woman you'd met, six years ago, timid and shy, believing herself unworthy of love. You think of the woman who'd married you, learning, learning how incredibly worthy she was, but still, tentative in her motions. You think of the woman who'd worried over your home study, fearful that being differently abled would prevent you from adopting a child. And you see that same woman now, the woman who has become so much more confident in herself. The woman who stands her ground, speaking in rapid sign to Eloise's teachers. The woman who stands up to doctors who fight your decision to hold out on attempting cochlear implants until your daughter is able to decide that for herself. The woman who stepped clear out of her comfort zone to demand you be treated quickly when you writhed in pain in the emergency room last year, a bad case of appendicitis crippling you. You see her, this woman who loves so fiercely, so wholly, you and Eloise both, who loves  _herself,_ for who she is, and you feel your heart fill over and over again.

Once Eloise drinks her milk, she's finally ready to crawl out of your lap. Because she's going to see Grandma, she absolutely  _insists_ on putting on a new dress, the one your mother had given her for her birthday, and you'd told her needed to be saved for special occasions. It makes you she Brittany laugh, as she attempts to do it herself, needing help only with the buttons. You clip back her hair for her, and she twirls around, palming her face to remind you how pretty she looks. Brittany, she adores that, your Baby E's self confidence, and she scoops her up into her arms, kissing her face, and signing that she looks  _perfect._

When you get to the station, the three of you stand on the platform, Eloise in the center of you, holding fast to both of your hands, Otis glued to Brittany's other side, watching the baby closely, just in case. The rumble of the arriving train makes her yelp with uncontrollable glee. She feels it in her whole body, the vibrations and the excitement both, and you hold just a little tighter to her as she wiggles, though she knows the rules about trains and cars, streets and railroad tracks. Your mother, she steps off quickly, knowing, knowing about the little light of her life, and how patience is hard for little ones- particularly when they haven't seen their grandmother in three weeks, and that grandmother always comes carrying a treat of some sort, and a new storybook. She hurries to you, and when she's less than ten feet away, you release your daughter's hands, letting her run into Grandma's arms, while you blindly find your wife's hand, and you entwine your fingers with hers.

Your mother, she's Eloise's only grandparent. Brittany still hasn't seen her parents, not since the night you'd told them about your engagement, and they've never met your daughter. She'd been conflicted about it, so conflicted that she made herself sick, when she first came home, not wanting to deprive your daughter of something she maybe deserved to have, but then, then she decided what Eloise needed most was for her big mommy to believe in herself, to be self-confident, to shun what anyone else had to say. Brittany knew then, without a doubt, that trying to mend a relationship with the people who never tried to reach out to her, even though they  _had_ to know about Eloise, from your radio show, it would do more harm than good. And so, before your daughter's first birthday, she'd made that her final decision, and since then, she's never looked back. She's put herself and her family first, above any sense of obligation, and you couldn't be more proud of her.

"She's been beside herself. All day. If. If anyone was ever to convince your mom to move here, it would be E."

"You're right about that. She loves our baby girl more than anything." You tear your eyes from your mother, holding Eloise in her arms, signing to her about the train conductor— because your mother, she'd learned some sign for Brittany, but for Eloise, who speaks nothing else, she'd immersed herself, taking classes at the library, studying books, working with you and Brittany, until she became fluent. You tear your eyes from her, and you look at Brittany's face, shining in the late day sunlight. Eyes sparkling, as she reads your lips, as she watches their interactions, as she takes it all in.

"Hard not to adore her, isn't it?"

"I'd say closer to impossible." You trace hearts with your thumb on the inside of Brittany's wrist, and you feel it, the way her body smiles. "Like her big mommy."

"And her little mommy too." She presses a kiss to your temple, and drops your hand in favor of pulling you close, her presence engulfing you, giving you butterflies, still.

You get ready to go out, while your mom occupies Eloise. They sit on the floor of her bedroom, the forest painting Brittany had done in fits and spurts right after you'd brought her home surrounding them, and they play Memory. Taking your time getting ready, it's definitely a luxury these days, and you savor it, sitting at the mirror, putting your makeup on, and looking to Brittany, who watches you in the pane of glass as she gets dressed. She looks beautiful in her blue dress, hair pulled up, and she smiles at you, tiny lines that have formed around those universe eyes, only serving to make her more beautiful. When you're ready, you go together to kiss your daughter goodbye. She bounces on her toes, and accepts your hugs and kisses, her belly laugh echoing through the room, when Brittany sneaks one last tickle underneath her chin.

"We won't be too late, Mama." You promise, but your mother, she just shakes her head and beams down at Eloise.

"We're okay here, baby girl. Don't rush home, enjoy yourselves. You deserve it."

"Thank you, Maribel." Brittany tickles her fingers down  _your_  side, telling you that you'll entirely accept that offer. "I think we will."

_Bye big mommy. Bye little mommy. I sleep good with grandma._ Eloise rests her head on her hands again to emphasize the sleep, though you know, you both know that she and your mother both stretch bedtime as late as possible.  _I love you big._

_I love you big._ You and Brittany sign simultaneously, slipping out of the bedroom, just as Eloise asks your mother for her crayons.

Hand in hand, you walk through Rittenhouse Square, Otis a few steps ahead of you. On the early summer evening, the park is busy, families out together, couples wrapped in each other, single people, walking their dogs. You love it here, your safe little neighborhood, the place your wife has long felt comfortable, the place your daughter will grow up. You love it, and walking through the park with Brittany, it reminds you of every date you started or ended by doing this, of every afternoon that you'd brought lunch out and just sat on a bench enjoying each other's company, of the times when Eloise was very young, and you'd bring her out in the middle of the night when she was inconsolable and walking with her was the only way you'd get her to sleep. It's one of those places that's been a constant presence in your life, in your love story, and you lean your head on Brittany's shoulder, savoring her closeness to you.

You go to dinner at Parc. It's funny, how you used to come so much, but now, you save it for special occasions. Date nights and birthdays, and this, your silly little celebration of six years to the day since this beautiful, beautiful woman ran into you on the street, dousing you with coffee, and then instantly stealing your heart with her soft, nervous mannerisms, and her big sweetheart dog. Six years, since your whole life changed. It's not a day you usually celebrate, you mark your wedding anniversary each and every year, but this year, your mom happened to be here, this year, it falls on a Friday, so you figure, it's just an extra special date night. You hold hands with her across the table, you sip your wine, the same wine you've been drinking with her since you'd discovered you both prefer a dry white, and you can't help but stare at her. Brittany, your Brittany, she's as beautiful as ever. Brittany, your Brittany, still gives you the very same butterflies she gave you on your very first date. Butterflies that start in the pit of your stomach, and flutter up, floating, flapping, almost as if they'll lift you up.

All through dinner, you're mushy inside. It's one of the things that you tell people now, when they call your show to ask for love advice. Marry the person who you can have real talk with, who shares common goals with you, and who you know will have your back no matter what. But also marry the person who you think will still melt you inside, years in the future, with a single utterance of the words  _I love you._ Marry the person who will give you butterflies. It will never all be melty  _I love you's_ or butterfly smiles, but they're important, they're so important. They remind you always that Brittany is the girl for you, that she's your one true love, and she always will be. Brittany teases you a little, for the way you look at her, a mix of spoken and signed language, the hybrid you've come to speak so naturally, but her eyes sparkle, and you feel your heart in your throat, because still, still, she looks at you that way, too.

After dinner, you walk down to the river. You're truly taking your mom up on her offer to stay out as late as you want, and you're glad for that. It's a little chilly by the water at night, though you're unsurprised, when Brittany pulls a sweatshirt for you out of her bag, knowing you're always the first to get cold. You pull it on, over your dress, the worn in Phillies logo falling across your chest. You snuggle in closer to Brittany on the bench overlooking the water, and for a long while, she just plays with your hair, as you look out across the water, the occasional pre-Fourth of July firework bursting out in the sky. Otis lies at your feet, same as he has on six years' worth of date nights, and you offer him up a treat from the side of your bag, Brittany smiling inwardly at how you spoil him. You think, really, that you could fall asleep right there and be perfectly content, your head on her shoulder, and your arms around each other, home, even outside of the house. But you know, you'd rather enjoy the rest of your impromptu "meetiversary" night, as you'd jokingly called it on your show in the morning, and fall into bed with Brittany later.

"You believe in fate. Right?" Brittany asks you, breaking you from your own thoughts. It's funny, you've been together a long time, but it's the first time she's ever brought this up to you. Furrowing your brow, you tilt your head, so you can see her face, and she appears to be considering it deeply.

"Fate?" You slice the air with your hand, then bring both fists down in front of you. "I think so, yeah. Why?"

"I don't know. I was just. I was thinking about meeting you. It's silly now, after all this time, to even wonder. To wonder how, of all the people in the world I could have run into, it was you. I. We. We didn't meet through people, or anything. You just happened to be walking on the same street at the same time."

"And you dumped my coffee all over my jacket." You smile, thinking of that morning. Thinking of how overwhelmed you'd been at work. Thinking of how you'd been so unbelievably frustrated when coffee splattered across you, until you looked up, and saw the most earnest face you'd ever encountered, the eyes, those eyes that hold the whole universe, that you fall just a little more in love with every day,

"You know, in  _Oh, The Places You'll Go,_ the part. The part about deciding which way to go, left or right. Or right and three-quarters."

"Of course." You smile. "Eloise got my book name, but yours is her favorite. We've read it a thousand times."

"I think, sometimes, Santana." She says your name, that way she does that makes your skin flush. "What if I had chosen different? What if I— I had gone the back way home. Or. Or if Otis stopped to go to the bathroom. Or you'd left your job even a minute later. You and I. We never would have met. The whole last six years. The would have been entirely different. It's just, it's a strange feeling. That one random decision. That changed our lives forever. In the biggest way."

"If it was fate though, Sweetheart, nothing was random. If it was fate, you were meant to turn that corner, I was meant to leave the station at exactly that time. We were meant to meet then, because we were meant for each other."

"I like that better." Brittany sighs, relieved, maybe. "I like the idea that. That everything, it sort of. Led up to that moment? Maybe. Even the bad things, they led to the best good. To you. The love of my life. To our great big life together."

"You're getting pretty good at those love words, Brittany Lopez." You find yourself wiping away tears from your eyes, and you laugh a little at yourself for how sentimental you get, when you do it. "Though I've always loved the things you say to me."

"You have. You've always just. Loved me for who I am. And wanted me— Wanted me as I came. I love you more for that."

"Who you are and how you came to me are why I love you. You're so very special, you and our daughter both, and there's never anyone I'd rather be with."

"I know. And thank you. Thank you for— for making me believe it." She presses her lips softly to yours, cupping your cheek, bringing you deeper into the kiss.

"Always and forever." You murmur against them, drawing the words with your fingertip on her lower back, through the fabric of her dress. The tactile sensations, they give away your promises, even if she doesn't hear the words, and you feel her smile against your mouth. When you pull away, you pause, just for a moment, looking deep into her eyes, the greatest depths of love for you in existence, and you smile, you smile again, at your gorgeous wife. "So how do you feel about buying me a cup of coffee before we head home?"

"I think I can handle that." Brittany bites her lip, remembering. Without another word, she slips her fingers through yours, the place they've long found home, and six years later, your gorgeous girl with with universe eyes, she pulls you close, and she starts to walk, taking you back, back, to the very beginning.


End file.
